


Edge of Innocence

by sohardtosay



Series: Swan Song [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: A Shitload of Original OCs, Blood and Gore, Developing Relationship, GTA Characters, GTA!verse, Gun Violence, Implied mental illness, Mentions of Pedophilia, Multi, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Police Brutality, Raywood-centric, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Smut, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, fistfights, tragic backstories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohardtosay/pseuds/sohardtosay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years ago: the Fake AH Crew were a humble, ragtag group of thieves. They were a godsend to a city that was burning alive in its own misery, a group of cop-killing, fear-of-god gangsters that would sign autographs if asked and fearlessly boasted their faces in the news. </p><p>But every story has a turning point, and every tide must come out to shore.</p><p>Theirs just happens to come to them with a skull mask and a gun strapped to his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Plain Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Part One of a very looooooong GTA!Verse saga. Essentially an introductory chapter--and my first story posted to AO3! [weak confetti toss]
> 
> Series will be divided into four (possibly five) parts, all about six or seven chapters in length.

To the passerby, the two men look like they’re waiting for the bus.

At least, that’s the cover.

“He’s late,” says the younger of the two—his face is coolly self-assured with dark, assessing eyes and mahogany-colored curly hair beneath a beanie. His brown leather jacket is real and probably costs more than some of the jalopies rolling down the street. “Not that I’m fucking surprised.”

“So why bring it up?” the other asks—mid-to-late thirties, hair short, dark, and unruly, mustache positively Machiavellian, and his outfit, of all things, a crumpled tuxedo. The sunglasses occupying two-thirds of his face poorly disguise his hangover as a tattooed hand raises a cup of coffee to his lips. 

He sighs. “Trying to shoot the breeze.”

“Fuck this. Call him.”

“It’s a fucking burner phone. He’ll call when he’s ready.”

“Which could be never.” Coffee cup empty, the man discards it into the overflowing trash can next to the bench. “This could be a setup. I know we’re so fucking humble and all, but remember we’re kinda high-profile targets.”

The other barks a laugh. “You’re saying that like he’s smart enough to pull that kind of shit?”

“No, but he’s psychotic enough to snap and turn on us just ’cause we looked at him funny. Remember Johnny, up in Sandy Shores?”

“Hey, they swear he’s legit.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The younger man eyes him funny. “What’s with you today? Hangover’s making you serious all of a sudden.”

“Well excuse me for being in a bad mood after one of our own nearly turned us over to fucking _Ortega_.” Abruptly, he smacks the bench in a sudden bout of rage. “ _Fuck_. Not even a contact, or some random banger, man—one of our fucking own!”

A woman passing by draws her child back with a disapproving scowl. 

“Relax,” the other man says, taking out a cigarette—he offers one, which is taken without prompt. “He was a weak link, we took care of him.”

“Still bothers me,” the man mutters. “Shit, if I’m gonna be the leader, least I can do is let the right guys in, y’know?”

The other scoffs; almost in sync, they blow out clouds of smoke. “And do what? Screen them beforehand? Ask to see some ID? Half the eligible dudes can’t drive ’cause they got popped. Don’t beat yourself up, man—you still got four solid hits. One miss isn’t the end of the fucking world.” 

Petulantly, the older man says, “Five, if you count your wife.”

“Which I fucking _don’t_ , thank you. The farther I can keep her out of this shit, the better.”

“Not your decision if she wants to join.” His cigarette is finished, so he puts it out beneath his shoe.

“Whatever, dude.”

Just then, at the open end of the bench, a woman takes a seat, pocketbook balanced in her lap. Actually, “woman” is the wrong word—she’s more of a corpse in waiting, tiny and ancient in a navy sweater set, a few tufts of snow white hair and wrinkles so deep that her blue eyes bulge compared to the rest of her sunken face. Her lips, caked in matte red lipstick, strain into a smile almost ignorantly, as if she’s forgotten she looks like she has but days left.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” The voice from that froggy mouth is high and conflicts with the rest of her. 

Politely, they both smile. “Good morning.”

“Where are you headed to?”

“Oh, we’re just waiting for a friend,” the older man says smoothly. She reminds him of his mother—God rest her soul—except, while this woman looks to be about ninety, his mother looked the same at sixty-five and had a nativity scene tattooed on her arm.

“I’m headed to Richman for the tournament at LSGC.” She beams. “My son’s in it.”

He smiles. “Tell him I said best of luck.”

“That’s very kind of you, young man. I will.”

They sit quietly as the traffic continues to flow. This stop is a hub for multiple lines, and after a few minutes a bus approaches, but the woman mutters, “Oh darn” and lets it drive past. The younger man draws his phone from his pocket, on silent, and turns away to answer. His sentences are clipped and, although the old woman is likely partially deaf, he speaks quietly and quickly.

“Him?” the older man inquires as the other hangs up.

“Nope. Gavin.”

His eyes widen. “Already?”

“They’re not sure. But this could be it.” At the skeptical look he’s given, he hastens, “Dude, I know this is literally like, a couple weeks after the fact, but he says they have a good feeling about this one. _All_ of them.”

“We’ll see.”

Just then, another bus rounds the corner at the end of the crowded roadway. The woman stands and discretely, they exchange a relieved look. Her presence wasn’t a bother, but if she’d been around when it was time for the drop, there would have been trouble. 

As the driver releases the hydraulics so the steps lower to her level, she turns to them. “You boys have a nice day.”

They both nod, smiling. The younger one says, “You too, ma’am.”

After the bus is gone, there’s no time for discussion because the older one suddenly goes rigid, clamping down onto his counterpart’s arm. His eyes are fixed across the road.

“Is it him?”

“Yeah. It’s gotta be.”

“Him” is a man in his early forties, dirty white T-shirt, dirty jeans, dirty dark hair, dirty everything, lazing along with the crowd using the crosswalk. His gait is relaxed but his eyes are subtly wild, betraying his seemingly casual demeanor. Something about him seems almost uncontained, palpable even down the block where they’re sitting. Instantly, they’re on high alert (it doesn’t help that his hands are shoved into his pants pocket.) In their type of trade, they’re well-attuned to this sort of thing—they were warned by all of their cohorts that this one was especially dangerous, ten degrees of separation from his partner, a clean, smart man named Michael who usually attended their meetings in casual suits.

Once he’s within earshot, the older one calls out, “Your hands cold?” His tone is friendly enough to pass for banter, but the three of them hear the subtle warning: take them out. Now.

Luckily, the man complies. His fingers are scarred and tattooed, but unarmed. The tension diffuses a fraction.

He sits beside them, kicking his left leg up so it’s crossed over the other. “My business partner gives his deepest condolences for being unable to come,” he says, and even his voice sounds dirty—gritty and sooty from years of meth abuse and uncensored rage. “He said he hopes you understand.”

“Oh, we do.”

He smiles, mouth full of unclean crooked teeth. “That’s wonderful.”

They wait a minute. Coolly, he sets a brown paper bag beside him on the bench that neither of them makes a move to grab. They all watch traffic as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

The minute they decide it’s safe, the younger man says, “Results are guaranteed?”

“Always.”

“Tell Lester next time he wants to do this he doesn’t send you or Michael. He comes himself.”

The man stretches casually; his shirt hitches, revealing a tasteful tattoo sneaking over the band of his jeans that blares AGES 18 AND UP. “Hey, give the man a fucking break—he’s a gimp tech geek who’d sooner screw someone over online than show up to a meeting.”

“He shows up next time, or we go to him. His choice.”

“I’ll be sure to pass the message.” 

“And tell your buddy Ortega that if he’s got a problem with us, next time he can fucking say it to our face,” the older man cuts in. 

“Can’t help you there. The last time Ortega and I spoke, I held a gun to his skull after driving his trailer into Cassidy Creek.”

“Whatever. To tell you the truth, Trevor, I’m hesitant to even do this shit at all after what happened with Caleb.” The man shoots him a pointed look.

Trevor scowls at him—it’s a brief motion, but the rage that flares in his eyes rivals a nuclear explosion. “If you’re fucking suggest Michael or any of my colleagues are flakes, you’re sorely fucking mistaken. The minute they talk to that scab Ortega is the day that cut their own balls off.” His smirk is cruel. “Besides. Caleb was only a matter of time and you fucking know it.”

“Watch yourself,” the man says, his face serene for the hostility in his voice. He stretches his neck. “Expect a call soon.”

“Done. Lester’s expects a hasty and bulky cut, of course.”

“Of course.”

The next ten minutes fall into silence, before Trevor spots the approaching bus and stands.

“I have a question,” he says without turning to face them. “That little old lady that was talking to you earlier—did she know that she just had a conversation with a pair of bank robbers? Or nice young men waiting for the bus?”

“To you, we’ll only ever be young men waiting for a bus,” the younger man replies evenly. Trevor turns at that, and smiles so all of his rotten teeth show.

The bus stops and he walks toward it. Where it’s going doesn’t matter; he boards and leaves the bag on the bench.

Another minute. Slowly, the younger man extends a hand and takes the bag. He places it in his lap like it’s lunch, then takes out his phone and places a call. It’s wordless and no one answers.

A Lincoln Town Car crosses the intersection and pulls up to the curb. Calmly, they stand and approach it, both getting into the back before it blends back into traffic.

“Clean?” asks the driver, a man in his thirties with a reddish brown beard and a deep, rich voice. He has a sunglass attachment on his glasses and a black driver’s cap that horribly contradicts his bright Hawaiian shirt.

“As dicks,” Geoff replies.

Jack smiles. “Good. But I have a bad feeling about the contact. Ray says he lit up the O’Neill meth lab all because he wanted to sign one of their trading partners but they got there first.”

“That was _him_?”

“Yeah. He’s dangerous, Geoff, which is saying something considering who we are. Even his own partner doesn’t trust him.”

“Whatever,” Geoff says, absently twirling one of the curled tips of his mustache. “He got us what we needed and didn’t slaughter us. It’s a start.”

Jack turns onto the highway, toward Blaine County. Michael’s on the phone again, listening to the line ring as he looks out the window. The sky out here is already brighter and bluer than the city.

Gavin answers after two rings. “Yeah.”

“Get Ray. Tell him we’re ready.”

“Finally.”

Michael smiles.


	2. A Fire Starts to Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every story, they suppose, has a turning point. Their turning point just happened to have a name, a face, and a gun strapped to his back.

**FROM THE LOS SANTOS COUNTY DAILY FRONT PAGE** :  
“ _Yesterday in downtown Los Santos, shock and awe as the landmark Maze Bank Tower was robbed yesterday for a staggering nine million dollars—a heist that seemed to be over in a mere matter of minutes. Tellers to the luxurious building were stunned when five masked robbers toting AR-15s approached a teller window and demanded the withdrawal, announcing that they had cut off all communication in the building and would openly fire on any witness that slowed them down. Previously the LSPD had assumed the Bank Tower “un-robbable”, assuring the public that in spite of its mass reserves, the technology in the building was unsurmountable. However, it would be appear that today that technology was proven to surpassed, as witnesses say the gunmen cleaned out the vault and left through the rear entrance into an unmarked black vehicle. After their departure, even after the arrival of the police two minutes later, technological communications in the building were down for an additional hour, baffling officers and heightening the paranoia of the city as a whole._

_“In spite of the bizarre circumstances, LSPD has high suspicions that the robbery is the work of the notorious Fake AH Crew, a band of five, and sometimes six men who are responsible for as many as four robberies a year, with gains often in the millions. Popping up about three years ago, the Crew has been terrorizing Los Santos banks, depositories, and jewelry stores; they’re known for their quick, efficient robberies and seeming ability to disappear. The Fake AH Crew is distinct for their choice getaway car: a black Model T-like vehicle equipped with a V8 engine and blazing lime green logo on its hood—a star with a joystick in its center, enclosed by a circle. The Fake AH logo is up in nearly every police station and bank in the tricounty area, yet the elusive car has only been spotted in blurry photographs, surveillance video, and traffic cams. It has never been seen in person by officers. The Fake AH Crew’s hideout, tactics, and members remain a mystery._

_“If it is indeed the Fake AH Crew, while their past hits have been bold, never has one been this brazen—due to the hits on smaller bank branches, many Los Santos residents have been switching to Maze Bank. However, in light of this recent crime, fear and uncertainty have never been higher. ‘Quite honestly,’ one witness to the Bank Tower robbery tells us, ‘I’m starting to think this “Fake AH Crew” is a myth. I mean, it seriously sounds like fiction. They drive a car with their name practically_ written _on it, yet no one’s ever seen it in person? The car looks like something out of a Bogie movie, yet it can go faster than a Crown Vic? No one knows anything about them, not even where they might be hiding out, and now they rob the “securest” bank in the city for nearly ten mil after doing some kind of wizardry to the bank’s bulletproof electronics? All of this sounds like a movie. I saw the guys for myself—hell, one of them told me to get out of the way at one point—and I still don’t believe they’re real or that any of this happened.’  
“As of yet, no word from LSPD about what sort of ‘wizardry’ the Fake AH Crew potentially pulled yesterday. ‘Whatever is,’ the head tech tells us, ‘it’s eons ahead of modern technology. Whoever designed this has either already cured cancer, or is a computer. It’s so complex, it’s barely human.’_

_“In spite of no security footage and no witnesses to the vehicle speeding away—all the witnesses were ordered to stay down until they heard the car drive away, and the teller who looked up and saw the color was promptly shot in the shoulder—the police are convinced it’s the Fake AH Crew. After all, unhuman heist abilities, a huge take, and disappearing without a trace: who else could it be?”_

——

In Ray Narvaez Jr.’s luxury high rise, overlooking downtown Los Santos and the distant Vinewood Hills, the paranoia and terror running through the city’s veins is nowhere to be found.

Ray is young—only twenty-two, but his demeanor is (usually) more collected than his colleagues. His eyes and hair are black as night, and like Jack and Michael, he wears glasses. His choice of clothing is casual and expected for someone his age: hoodies, jeans, and sneakers. Not the kind of person who owns a three million dollar penthouse apartment—and his neighbors definitely notice. He barely graduated high school and owns five luxury cars. 

Living the dream. 

Mounted in his media center, his massive 55’ flat screen shows clips of confused cops and witness interviews from the Bank Tower. He stands at the counter barefoot in a lavender-colored jacket and black jeans, laptop open in front of him and glass of water sweating beside it. Admittedly, watching the panic and uncertainty in some of the people’s faces, he pities them; while the rest of the city is in full-blown hysteria, his cut is a stunning $21 million, to be wired into his account over the next week and a half. He’s never been more at ease.

He almost feels bad. Almost. 

Across the living room, his front door opens—he always knows when it’s one of the Crew, because they just invite themselves in—and Michael Jones enters, usual leather jacket draped across one of his shoulders.

“Afternoon,” Ray says.

Michael shuts the door. “You see this shit in the _County Daily_ today?”

“Nope,” Ray replies, sipping his water. His eyes have returned to his laptop. “Been reading.”

Michael crosses the room, newspaper open. “It’s acting like we’re fucking _wizards_ or something.”

“Isn’t that a _good_ thing? Considering we’re usually ‘thugs’ and ‘punks’ and just ‘general assholes robbing banks.’”

Michael grimaces. “Hell no. The way they wrote this, it’s like we bust into a bank once in a while then disappear. Some Vinewood yuppie probably fucking wrote it.”

“Well, what we did yesterday was pretty fucked up.” Ray readies Michael a glass of scotch from the bottle Geoff insists all the apartments keep stocked (not like Ray drinks it.) “Lester’s gotta be part robot or something.”

“Probably.” Michael kicks his shoes off onto the throw row beneath the glass-mahogany coffee table, then crosses for his drink. “I like him, though. He gets shit done, no-nonsense. Not like his idiot cohorts. _Oh_ ,” he exclaims, “and get this: in the paper, it said, ‘The Fake AH Crew’s members remain a mystery.’”’

Ray rolls his eyes. “If you live under a fucking rock.”

“This is so fucking inaccurate. The cops might’ve never seen our car but they know who we are. They sure as _fuck_ know it.”

“They know Geoff,” Ray says. “That’s for sure.”

“And we don’t _just_ stick up banks.” Michael throws the paper onto the coffee table. “Fuck, man, it’s like they don’t know us at all.”

“It’s not like they’re claiming to,” Ray says, “to be fair.”

“True.” Michael flops onto the couch beside his jacket, tilting his neck back against the rest until it cracks. “So this new guy...you’ve read his dirt. What’s the fucker’s deal? He’s gotta be good if Geoff’s this eager to hire him.”

“Name’s James Ryan Haywood,” Ray says, reading off the screen where the files Gavin forwarded him have been open for the last few days. “Thirty, birthplace somewhere in San Andreas. He was in and out of juvie most of his childhood, starting at nine after he ran over a cat with a lawn mower—after he got caught, anyways. People in his part of town said he was always killing animals and torturing people he hated, but they just couldn’t prove it.”

“Oh, great,” Michael remarks, switching to Animal Planet on Ray’s flatscreen. “So he’s a fucking psycho.”

A praying mantis lunges at that moment, snatching an unsuspecting cricket.

“It gets better. When he was twelve, some kids made fun of him because his mom was like, meth addict trailer trash, so he burned their houses down. With them still inside. Went to jail, got out when he was fifteen, dropped out of high school, and stuck up a convenient store like, a week later. And he didn’t plan it. The cashier wouldn’t sell him cigarettes, so he pulled a piece and shot the guy in the arm.”

Michael whips his head around. “ _Jesus._ ”

“He got tried as an adult and went away until he was twenty-three. Somehow he got a job at that pest place down by the river but got fired a few months later for threatening one of his coworkers. He snuck back one day and hid out in the complex before trapping and gassing the guy and his whole crew.” Ray pauses, because he didn’t get this far in reading. “To death.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Michael exclaims. His eyes are wide. “Ray, this guy’s not a good fit, he’s a goddamn sociopath.”

“He evaded the cops and they’ve been looking for him ever since, evidently. Not that that’s stopped him” Ray scrolls past a few pages of technical stuff—the guy’s lethal and a genius in all regards, in spite of his total lack of formal education—to the last few pages. “This isn’t official police record, but word around Blaine County is he spent the last couple years as a hitman for small-time gangs up there. But now he’s kinda like a prize because, two years ago, after that contact, Trevor, decimated that Blaine County biker gang, Haywood’s employer tracked the cartel the gang had rolled for—cuz now that their primary peddlers were all dead, they planned to come to the town and really fuck shit up. So Haywood was hired to execute all of them at their hideout in Liberty City. And he did: dude literally walked up to the hotel they were camped at and opened fire with a shotgun. Walked out alive.”

Michael’s up from the couch now, coming over to look at the laptop. “Ray,” he says, clicking through some stuff, “he could be useful if we were looking for say, a torture guy. Or someone who was batshit insane. But we need a primary Crew member—meaning a dude sane enough that he won’t turn around and cap all of us one day for something stupid. I mean, fuck, if I knew Geoff was looking for a psychopath, we coulda enlisted that guy Trevor the other day.”

Ray shrugs as he refills Michael’s glass. “Hey, I agree, dude, but Geoff’s in love with his credentials. Gavin sent it to him last night and apparently he’s losing his shit about this guy. Thinks he could be really valuable.”

“No fucking way,” Michael says. “If Geoff wants him, he’s gonna have to go through me; I’ve bent over backwards for him before, wanting to keep Gavin, but I’d take Gavin _any day_ over this guy.” He takes the scotch, swirls it, and drains the glass.

Ray continues looking at the screen. The last couple of days, he’s been glued to the files, poring over them like he’s studying for a test. And he is, in a way.

The front page of the files contains a driver’s license-like portrait of Haywood: his birthdate, birthplace, height, hair color, eye color—even his blood type and fingerprints. The picture of him, though, is what unsettles Ray even more than the page after blood-stained page in this guy’s criminal record. It’s from a surveillance camera, of a store somewhere. The page before the cartel slaughter details the incident: four years ago, he stuck up a supermarket in San Andreas and murdered a cashier.

Haywood’s approaching to where the camera is hoisted from the registers, where a bunch of blurry witnesses are huddled. He’s looking right at the camera, practically staring it down. Most criminals—the smart ones, anyways—avoid the cameras like cops. Haywood’s almost challenging it. 

He’s covered in blood, and smiling. A duffel bag is slung on his shoulder.

Granted, Geoff is no vanilla bastard when it comes to crime. His rap sheet’s almost as colorful as Haywood’s: first arrest at sixteen, followed by thirty more over twenty-two years. His convictions stand at nearly zero, however; he’s never been popped for any major felonies due to an expensive lawyer and an expert crew to cover up his tracks. The cops know his name, his face, his tattoos, and they hate him, because he’s untouchable. And knows it.

But he’s different. He’s not wild or even approaching the realm of insanity; he’s measured and aside from being a rowdy drunk and a bit of a sadist, Ray knows he would never go off on any of them. Once or twice he’s smacked Gavin for being a dumbass (and really, who _hasn’t_ done that), but he’d sooner die than hurt any one of the Crew, let alone kill them. And Haywood...he would. He most definitely would. Just a still photograph of him, with his blue eyes blazing against the deep, dark blood splattered on his face, is fucking horrifying. Ray can’t fathom him in person. 

“Oh, Michael—you wanna know this dude’s alias?”

“Enlighten me.”

“‘The Mad King.’”

“ _What?_ ” Michael laughs. “No fucking way. Guy’s a cold-blooded killer and he goes by some World of Warcraft name like _that_?”

Ray laughs, too. “Seemed fitting to me. Apparently he got it in prison after he shanked his cellmate. He has ink across his shoulders that says ‘THE KING’ or something.”

“Fucking seriously?” Michael refills his glass just as his phone rings. “That’s so stupid it’s not even funny.” He wedges the phone against his cheek using his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Anyways,” Ray sighs, closing his laptop. “I’m gonna—”

“He did _what_!?”

He freezes. This doesn’t sound promising.

“ _WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN,_ ” Michael screams into the phone. He knocks over the scotch and doesn’t even care that it splashes on his six hundred dollar jeans—or Ray’s floor for that matter—racing to snatch his leather jacket off the couch cushions. “Fuck fuck fuck _fine_ Geoff Geoff fine we’ll be there in twenty okay just hang out okay yeah yeah bye—”

“What happened now?”

“Gavin,” Michael snaps, and really, Ray expected that. “Dumb fuck got himself _arrested_. He and Geoff got shitfaced last night _big fuckin’ surprise_ then Gavin goes down to the pier and starts harassing some little kid about God knows fucking what. So his mom goes to find help, and you know what’s right next to the pier, Ray?”

“The police station,” Ray deadpans. 

“ _Fucking police station._ And of course they fucking recognized him, and of course they wanted to arrest his ass, so what do they pinch him for?” Michael widens his eyes at Ray. “ _Disorderly conduct._ ”

“Oh, that’s fucking original.”

Michael scoffs so gruffly it’s practically spitting. “You’re telling me. So Geoff sent Burnie to keep Gavin from fucking us all further and is gonna try to post bail.”

“Good _luck._ ” They head out the door, Ray grabbing the first set of keys from the hook beside the door. “LSPD _hates_ us. They’ll probably try to interrogate him for the twenty-four hours, whether Burnie had shown up or not.”

They hit the stairwell to Ray’s garage. “Honestly,” Michael says, “what happened to the days that men could be criminals in fucking _peace_?”

——

A fire engine red Mercedes rolling up to the Los Santos Police Station always puts the officers on high alert—in this part of town, Vespucci, the only people rich enough to afford a Benz are drug dealers and lawyers.

Or the Fake AH Crew.

Geoff’s Phantom is parked in a handicap space—with a placard hanging off the rearview, which at this point, isn’t even adding insult to injury. It’s a whole new “fuck you.”

“Gerry!” Michael crows, approaching the desk. The officer behind the desk, a six foot tall black woman who looks like she’s never smiled in her life, barely looks up from her paperwork. “We’re here for one retard, Gavin Free.”

“Take a seat, Michael,” she deadpans. They comply.

Handcuffed to the bench across the room is a young Latino man who’s fallen asleep and a prostitute who’s easily fifty years old, her breasts saggy and sun-spotted—and about to spill out of her purple bra.

“Hey,” she says to them. Her voice is about as appealing as broken glass. “That was cool, what you did at the bank yesterday.”

“Like it?” Michael replies, leaning forward and whispering at the highest volume. “And the best part is, these dumb fucking cops can’t even prove it was us.”

Gerry glares at them and Ray covers his mouth, or else he’d lose his shit laughing.

An hour passes—they finally process the kid after a quick shake of the shoulder, and then the whore, who tells them her name is “Cinnamon to you, baby”—before an officer approaches them. He’s obviously new, because he actually has to _ask_ who they’ve come for.

“Oh, son,” Ray says sadly. The guy looks so pitifully confused.

Just as they cross the maze of desks (“Hey, Tiny Tim!” Michael shouts to a banger they recognize, who waves back with his un-cuffed hand), Burnie Burns emerges from an interrogation room, immaculate and smart as always with a sharp suit, shiny shoes, and neat facial hair.

Burnie, per Geoff’s strict discretion, is their “lawyer”, and part time money launderer/fallback guy supplier on the side—not that you’ll find that in his resume. It took nearly three lawyers and a year and a half before Geoff stumbled across Burnie down at the Vinewood track; he was nearly as sleazy as the rest of them, except he came with a briefcase and a degree in law. He has Buddy Holly glasses, wears baseball caps backwards and pink cargo shorts on weekends, and swears more than his clients, but every criminal with half a brain (and money in their wallet) wants him to represent them—especially after the Fake AH Crew hired him because, if his seven-figure ass can get them off for felony murder and robbing every bank in the state, then he sure as fuck could get the next petty Los Santos criminal off. And he has.

“It’s over already?” Michael asks. Burnie, brushing off his impeccable suit, looks up.

“You kidding? These cops are only human—you try surviving a room with drunk Gavin trying to get him to answer questions seriously.”

“He’s _still_ drunk?” Ray says.

Burnie shakes his head. “Nah. But he’s hungover enough to be convincing so I gave him my best lawyer advice: amp up the slur and talk like you just jailbroke the nuthouse. They didn’t last an hour.”

“Burnie,” Michael sighs, “I fucking love you.”

He smiles. “Keep paying for my kid’s college education and you can love as me long as you fucking like, buddy.”

Behind them, the door opens again, and out comes Gavin Free, lanky and slim and draped in one of Geoff’s tuxedo jackets that’s horribly out of place with his Grape Fanta T-shirt. His brown hair is messy—messier than usual, that is—and he’s growing a rare bit of stubble along his jaw. And, of course, he smiles stupidly when he sees them.

“Hi,” he squeaks.

“You kids would be six feet under if it weren’t for me,” Burnie says. “Swear to fucking God.”

“No,” Michael says, securing his arm around Gavin’s waist—because, as much as he pretends to hate Gavin, they’re the closest friends in the Crew. “ _Gavin_ would be six feet under. We’d be in like, Mexico or some shit.”

“Aw, Michael,” Gavin warbles, “you’re the best pal, holding me up and everything.”

Michael squeezes his eyes shut. “Shhhhh, lil’ Gavers, just sleep, before I ‘accidentally’ deck you in the face.”

“Let’s just get out of here before they find another reason to charge us,” Ray says. “Like, wearing pants in public.”

Helpfully, Gavin adds, “Or breathing.”

“Thank you, Gavin.”

“Again,” Geoff says behind them, emerging from the room; he’s even more rumpled than usual in his white dress shirt (stained with what looks like tequila) and his matted, unbrushed hair. “ _So_ sorry about this misunderstanding. I sincerely hope you find who did it. I saw the news this morning—to think, that the most secure bank in the city could have been hit…”

“Just get the hell out of here, Ramsey.”

Geoff smiles widely—cruelly, because nothing pleases him than these moments, these moments when they could have had him and have to watch him walk away. His shirt isn’t even fully tucked into his pants, his shoes are dull, and his arms are full of tattoos; he looks like the average punk who forgot to bathe. 

Too bad they know exactly what he is.

——

After Burnie storms away in the parking lot to deal with a client in San Andreas who got capped for sticking up a liquor store (“And get this—he didn’t even want booze or even money. He wanted the Mars bars. The _fucking Mars bars_.”), the Crew heads downtown.

Over Bluetooth in the Benz, Geoff says, “I must be fucking _insane_ to do this after what happened today, but I’m taking you assholes out drinking.”

In the background of the call, Gavin cheers, and Geoff yells that if he doesn’t “simmer the fuck down, I am driving this $800,000 car off the road, Gavin.” Then he hangs up. Sounds like a plan. 

Los Santos at night is a different universe than Los Santos during the day. In Daytime Los Santos, nice old ladies at bus stops strike up conversation and you can walk down a street in the east or south side without getting mugged. But in Nighttime Los Santos, little old ladies sleep while gang wars are waged on Vespucci Beach and homeless people shiv joggers for their iPods. Up north, in Blaine County, they’ve heard it’s worse: Sandy Shores and Paleto Bay are hopelessly infested with street gangs and drug dealers. Ray remembers well when he first heard of Trevor Philips: he’d blown up the O’Neill family meth lab over a client dispute. Then he’d bombed the tiny peninsula of Stab City, the trailer park hideout of The Lost MC, using nothing but sticky bombs and his own wit. Not an eye batted.

Even for the Fake AH Crew, the south side is vicious at night. Little kids are shot over the Converse a banger hangs on the telephone wire in front of their house. Whores are armed. Not a single car is parked curbside, because it sure as fuck isn’t gonna be there in the morning.

And that’s exactly where Geoff takes them. 

“Our cars are gonna get stripped,” Michael mutters as the Phantom parks at the curb. “We’re gonna have to fucking walk home.”

A kid passing by the Mercedes stops dead, staring at. Ray kills the engine and acts like it’s normal to have a six-figure car in the ghetto. 

The joint Geoff chooses is a busy strip club—which they own, so the bigass booth roped off in the corner is opened up to them, and all the strippers smile and call them “sir.” Their drinks come immediately, the food on it’s way. Free dances all around. 

“God, it’s good to be king,” Geoff mutters, sinking down onto the leather of the booth.

“Yo, Geoff-y speaking of kings,” Michael says, Gavin slurping his cocktail noisily beside him, “Ray told me about this guy you wanna hire.”

Geoff leans his head back, his arms spread across the top of the booth. “You mean the guy we’re _gonna_ hire?”

Michael sighs, because talking Geoff down will be a fight. “Geoff…”

“You want a dance, Gavin? I’m feeling generous tonight.”

Gavin snorts into his drink, eyes pinned to the woman gyrating on stage. “Pass.”

“Ray?”

“ _Geoff._ ”

His eyes snap open. “ _What?_ ”

“I have _serious_ issues with us enlisting this guy.” The music changes then: techno that needs to be yelled over. “Like, I read his rap sheet—”

“Oh, it’s great, isn’t it?” Geoff takes a long swallow of his cocktail. “This guy’s gonna make our lives _so_ much easier.”

“Except, no he won’t, because he’s kind of a fucking murderer?”

“Well, so are we, Michael,” Gavin shouts.

“I know, Gavin,” Michael shouts back, “but I’m not worried about him murdering other people. I’m worried about him fucking murdering _us_.”

“Look,” Geoff yells, “we really shouldn’t be talking about this here. Jack isn’t here and it’s a goddamn strip club, for Christ’s sake. Why can’t we just enjoy the beautiful women and free refreshments and worry about work later?”

Gavin finishes his drink and sets the empty glass down. “For once, I’m with Geoff.”

“Gavin,” Michael says, “you didn’t see this motherfucker’s record. He—” Their food arrives them, and he shoots the waitress a look that makes her wither. He absolutely _hates_ being interrupted. 

“Who thought of ranch and hot wings?” Gavin says, mouth already full. “Because they’re a bloody genius and deserve fame and fortune.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Geoff says, taking half a cup of ranch with one wing. Ray asks a passing girl for a glass of ice water. 

“Ray,” Geoff says, just as the song changes, so he shouts Ray’s name across the entire lounge—not that too many heads turn, with plenty of thong-clad distractions around. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. What do you think?”

“About?”

“What Michael’s saying.” Geoff gets a glob of ranch in his mustache and towels it out with a napkin. “You know this guy’s records better than anyone.”

Ray twirls a hot wing around the plate, gathering up some pepper flakes. “Personally? I kinda agree.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean, he’s got a valuable skill set, sure, but so do hundreds of other dudes in Los Santos. This guy, he comes off wrong. He gives me the wrong vibe, you know? Like he’s gonna fucking detonate at any moment.”

Geoff strokes his mustache. “You know what? If you two are that opposed, let’s meet him before we hire him.”

“ _If_ we hire him,” Michael says. He’s on his second drink and his plate has no sign of food. His appetite’s basically gone.

“Whatever. _If_ we fucking hire him.” Geoff jumps suddenly, his knees banging the table. Michael’s cocktail sloshes a little over the sugared rim. “ _Ow_. Gavin, what the _fuck_ , did you not notice my fucking leg—”

“Nasty-looking pleb’s coming right for us.”

“...and you couldn’t just _tell_ me, instead of nearly kicking my leg off?”

“Yo.” A black man, maybe mid-to-late twenties, clean-shaven and short with a stout, broad figure—the “nasty-looking pleb”—is suddenly in front of their table. A pleb, maybe, but not nasty; he’s cleaner than ninety percent of the johns in here.

Geoff sets down the chicken bone in his hand. “What can I do for you, my boy?”

“I know you?”

“Most likely.”

“Shit,” the man mutters like he’s discovered something horrible. “I think I know y’all. You pulled that shit downtown with Lester’s magic button or whatever the fuck, right?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“Dude, no games. I’m Franklin—Trevor and Michael are...coworkers, I guess.”

Geoff does not extend a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Shit, man, y’all shouldn’t be here. Trevor’s looking for you.”

“Is that supposed to scare us? Because if you think that, you don’t know us at all.”

“No, you don’t get it, man,” Franklin says. “He’s fucking _pissed_. He heard about that cut Lester got the other day and now he wants in. He’s saying ’cause you didn’t offer, he’s gonna make you let him in on it.”

“Listen.” Geoff stands, and by now, half the club (even some of the dancers) are watching. It’s not every day someone’s brave enough to talk to the Fake AH Crew boss. “I don’t give a single hot fuck what Trevor _thinks_ he’s deserves. Find him first and tell him our answer is he can take a load to the face. If he thinks doing a half-assed job dropping a package on a fucking bus bench is worth even a _one percent cut_ , he’s even stupider and crazier than I originally fucking thought.” Geoff pauses to drink his second cocktail. “And _that’s_ fucking saying something.”

Franklin winces. “Shit, alright, I didn’t want trouble. I just—”

“No,” Geoff says, “I get it. You wanted to pass the message but if I were you, I wouldn’t even bother with that. Your ‘coworkers are garbage and one of them had the fucking nerve to call one of my previous employees a narc in the making. And even if he _was_ , I take that shit _very_ personally.”

“Franklin,” calls a man from a nearby table, taller with a full head of hair. “Is everything alright, dawg?”

“Yeah,” Franklin says, still looking at Geoff. “Everything’s cool.”

“Yeah, _dawg_ ,” Geoff drawls. He smiles sweetly. “So if you would, let me finish my fucking dinner and get home.”

Franklin looks humiliated, but he’s no fool; the Fake AH Crew has earned a rep, even here in the South Side, as the meanest crew in town. If Trevor wants to fuck with them, fine. He should’ve known better from the moment he met them.

Geoff sucks down the rest of his drink, froth in his mustache—ignorant of the unsettled silence in the room.

“Excuse me,” he calls to a passing dancer, “can I have a pitcher of ice water? I’m driving tonight.”

——

It’s long past midnight by the time Ray pulls into his garage. Michael spent most of the car ride bitching about how Geoff is making a huge mistake, and Ray was never happier to see him go.

He agrees. He knows, deep down, that he probably believes Michael’s words more than Michael himself believes them. Michael only got a brief glance—and they’ve had some crazy candidates in the past. But this guy takes the fucking cake.

Locking the Benz, he heads up the stairwell to his apartment. The pounding music and musky scent of the strip club hasn’t mixed well with the hot wings in his stomach; he could use a bong hit and nine-hour sleep. 

It’s pitch black when he opens the door, so he flicks on the light in the living room.

And that’s when he sees him.

In the leather armchair, a man is sitting with one long leg folded over the other, as if he’d been waiting for Ray. And he could have been, if not for the suppressed pistol in his lap.

This is, by no means, the first time someone has broken into Ray’s house. But the mask this intruder dons is new, and positively unsettling: a full mask that covers every inch of his head, pitch black and intricately molded to look like a skull, with particular details around the eye holes, nose, and mouth. The painted teeth are extremely white. 

“Don’t move,” the man says calmly. He has one hand curled around the gun almost affectionately, like it’s a cat. His low, rich voice is only slightly muffled by the mask. “If you’re carrying, take it out and unload it.”

Ray fishes the piece tucked into his waistband. He drops the clip to the floor without argument or hesitation. He knows this song and dance; a few years ago, before they got blown to the high heavens, a few members of The Lost MC had the nerve to break into the Crew’s safehouse near Chiliad. And their guns were a lot bigger.

“Set it on the table.” He does. The man turns his head down. “Socks?”

“No.”

“Come on.” Even masked, he’s obviously grinning—enjoying this. “Don’t make me frisk you.”

After a moment, Ray slides the pistol out of his right sock and disarms it. Damnit. 

“Excellent.” The man tucks his own firearm into his large leather jacket; vaguely, through the eyeholes, the white sclera of his eyes are visible as he looks Ray up and down. “Is this really who the city’s been terrified of for three years?”

“I guess.” Ray considers laughing, but doesn’t. 

Abruptly, the guy stands; compared to Ray, he’s two or three inches taller, but with the mask, bulky jacket, and the fact that he _broke into Ray’s apartment_ , he feels huge. “Got anything to drink?”

“Booze.”

“Anything else? Not really a drinker.”

Ray’s not sure why, but he confesses, “Me neither.” 

“Oh yeah?” The guy looks over at the scotch on the kitchen counter, but doesn’t comment. 

When he goes toward the kitchen, his stride is nearly silent, in spite of steel-toed work boots. Whoever he is, this is definitely not his first time breaking into someone’s house.

He opens the refrigerator slowly, then lets it fall shut. Something’s wrong. The atmosphere is radically shifting, like a wire inside of him is growing dangerously tight.

“Look man,” Ray says, “I don’t know who you are or what the fuck you’re even doing here, but if you’re gonna kill me, can you stop doing...whatever the hell it is you’re doing?”

Evenly, the guy says, “I’m not gonna kill you.” He unscrews the cap on a bottle of SmartWater. 

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“The piece is because you were armed.” 

“Then why are you here? Did your boss send you to intimidate me?”

“Nope. No boss.”

“I was about to say, for that you shoulda just sent the mask and spared yourself the trouble,” Ray jokes.

“I get that a lot.” He pushes the mask up partially and takes a long sip. Unmuffled, his voice has a smooth, hypnotic quality to it. “So I heard you’re the one they sent my files to?”

Even as tired as he is, in an instant Ray gets it.

This is Haywood.

“I...not. Originally…”

“Mmm.” The mask is still hitched up, and he’s smiling, looking down at the counter. His lips are thin but make the smile look vicious, his jaw strong and dusted with stubble. “But you did read them.”

“I did.”

“You like what you saw?”

“I guess.”

Without looking up, he scoffs. “If that isn’t the biggest fucking op-out I’ve ever heard.”

Ray freezes. The words are a physical scythe that cleave the room.

“That’s just the nice way of saying ‘hell fucking no.’” He sets the water bottle down suddenly— _slams_ it down, really. “I hate nice. Are you _nice_ , Ray?”

Ray avoids the question. “It’s not just me. Another guy agrees that you’re too crazy—”

Fuck. _Fuck_. He desperately wishes he could snatch the word out of the air. 

“‘Crazy’,” James repeats softly—and that’s all. No movement. No response. His mouth softly wraps around the word, caresses it almost, as if he’s testing out how it tastes. “That how it is?”

Ray doesn’t answer. The tension has developed into something stifling.

The clips are scattered on the floor. James could blow his head off before he even had a chance to retrieve them.

“Why did you come here?” he asks quietly. “Was there a point?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you in person.” Then, before Ray can react, he’s crossing the room, right up in Ray’s space. And he takes the mask off.

Ray is not expecting what lies beneath. 

His brown hair is parted at the side and dark at the hairline from sweat, and his eyes are a deep, dark blue—and for someone who’s obviously furious, he’s the epitome of cool collection as he leans toward Ray. But his calmness isn’t what draws Ray’s attention: his eyes and nose are covered with a black waxy substance, like kohl eyeliner or body paint, which explains why they blended seamlessly with the mask. It’s smeared slightly down his cheeks, above his left eyebrow, on the tip of his nose, but his eyes are impeccably surrounded with black, making the whites of his eyes blaze like flame.

Stunned, Ray says, “Holy shit.”

His smile is not friendly. “Isn’t that cool? Helps me blend with the mask.”

“Listen, James—”

“Ryan. My father was a James, and he has never been nor will he ever be in my life.” Those eyes are piercingly unforgiving as they search Ray’s petrified face. “I’ve heard about you. All of Los Santos has fucking heard of you, but...when I heard that one _Ray Narvaez Jr._ swayed my chances of getting into the Fake AH Crew, well, I just had to see himself for myself. Did a little research of my own.”

Ryan steps forward, which makes Ray fly backwards.

“You have the wrong idea,” he croaks. Ryan ignores him. 

“Born September 15th, 1989, in San Andreas, to one Ray Narvaez Sr. and the whore he knocked up. Mom gave a fake name and skipped town.” He smirks. “How’s it feel being from the same place as _crazy Ryan_?”

Ray says nothing.

“It’s just killing me, Ray. I have to be _screened_? I have to go through _trials_? ” Ryan, as he speaks, plays idly with the mask in his hands, the way a torturer shines a knife. “You people are acting like you’re the fucking cartel, when you’re a five-man outfit who has its fingers maybe nail-bed deep in one lousy Southern California city.”

“Then why not join the ‘fucking cartel’?” Ray whispers. “If we’re so insignificant and not worth your time?”

“The cartels and gangs around here are too busy, too established. They have no room to grow. But you...I feel like you have a lot of potential. I like potential. Potential gets you places.” Ryan shows his teeth. “So does being crazy. Shit, Ray, I thought a _requirement_ to be in the Fake AH Crew was to be crazy. You see the record they have on your buddy Michael? Got all thirty-one flavors: arson, armed robbery, felony murder, fraud…you wanna know what I’ve done, Ray?”

“I know what you’ve done,” Ray says. 

Ryan smiles meanly. “No, no. Not what’s _on_ record. Because that’s _nothing_ compared to the fun I’ve had out in the desert, up north where no one gives a fuck if you scream for help.”

“And this was supposed to help? Coming here and scaring the shit out of me?”

“Me, scaring the shit out of you?” Head still tilted down, he raises a brow. “I’d like to think of this as...clearing the air. There seems to be a mix-up about some certain job prerequisites.”

“Like I said, you have the wrong idea,” Ray breathes. Ryan’s smile, close-lipped and flat, widens. “I’m serious. I can give an opinion, but I don’t even have a say in the final matter. The boss decides that. Whoever your informant is, they told you wrong.”

“‘Informant’?” Ryan laughs abruptly, loudly, and the sound is cruel and condensed. “I don’t do informants, or contacts, or employees of any kind. I tailed you myself.” At Ray’s stunned look, Ryan smiles. “Tell your boss I consider it part of my resumé. Because I’ve seen his, too, and I think it’d interest him.”

“We’re nothing like you,” Ray snaps at the insinuation. Ryan raises his brow mildly, as if expecting this all along. “Any of us. If they hire you, fine. But don’t you ever fucking pretend you’re one of us.”

“Ooh, that’s vicious,” Ryan teases softly. Ray feels a humiliated heat creep along the back of his neck. “I can tell we’ll work well together.”

Ray stares at the floor for a long time until, at last, Ryan moves away. 

“Oh, and Ray.”

“ _What?_ ”

Ryan stands at the door, mask in one hand, the other on the stainless steel knob.

“Thought you’d be taller.”

Then he’s gone.


	3. Fun and Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every story, they suppose, has a turning point. Their turning point just happened to have a name, a face, and a gun strapped to his back.

**Ray** : We need to talk. Now.  
**Ray** : Vespucci Park in twenty. I don’t care if you show up in your underwear, hungover, missing limbs, just fucking show up.

——

Ray pulls his hood up and chooses a railing to a small bridge over an inlet that overlooks the beach, where a man throws a Frisbee for his dog to chase. It’s gonna be a warm day; already the sun is warm and bright, illuminating the pier and twinkling waves.

Geoff materializes beside him and Ray knows without looking, because his cologne and the smell of a burning cigarette puncture his nostrils first.

“You and this park, man.”

“It’s close to my house.”

They watch a pair of jogging women, one pushing a stroller, cross in front of the bridge on the shaded path that borders the sand. Geoff smokes for a while, his free hand dangling over the railing. 

“Jack told me he’s getting Michael. He’s too wrecked to drive.”

“Gavin?”

“Same. He said he’ll bike here.”

“Fine.”

Geoff sighs, stubbing out the cigarette on the rail. “If you don’t mind me asking, does this have anything to do with what happened in the club last night?”

“Nope.” Ray pauses. “Why?”

Second sigh. “I dunno. Jack called me at like, five this morning and said that apparently that guy Franklin has been blowing up Trevor’s phone after I told him to pass the message. I don’t know if they’ve had any contact yet.”

“He think we’re gonna have to deal with that eventually?”

“I fucking hope not. That’s the last thing I need right now.”

A minute passes. The dog playing fetch performs an impressive twist to catch the Frisbee.

“Oh _Chriiiiist_ ,” a voice yells out behind them, and they turn in time to see Gavin fly off his bike. Jack’s Town Car pulls up to the curb behind him; Michael steps out before it even comes to a full stop.

“You fucking _dumbass_ ,” he shouts. A woman getting into her car nearby jumps from his volume.

“ _Damnit_ ,” Gavin mutters, brushing sand from his pants. His bike, collapsed on the bridge, has its back wheel still spinning in the air. “I was doing so _good_ , too.”

“Surprised you didn’t die on the way here,” Geoff remarks. In spite of his tone, however, he stands Gavin up straight with a pair of hands on the shoulder and wipes the dirt from his shirt. The two of them are still fucked up from the club, clothes rumpled, unshaven, and hair unwashed; standing next to each other, it’s accented tenfold.

“So what’s this about?” Jack asks.

“Yeah,” Gavin echoes. “You never leave the house before noon, Ray.”

“Let alone text us at nine AM.”

Flatly, Ray says, “I didn’t sleep last night.”

“Well, buddy, if you have problems with insomnia, we’re not the people you should bring it to,” Geoff says.

“You think this is a fucking _joke_?” Ray snaps, surprising all of them (even himself a little.) “You’re all standing around like the fact that I texted you so early doesn’t mean something is seriously _wrong_.”

Their faces sober. “Ray,” Michael says, “what’s going on?”

“Not here. Can’t risk it.” 

“Why?” Geoff’s face hardens. “Is someone tailing us?”

“Were. Don’t know if they still are.”

“Who?” Geoff demands.

“That Trevor asshole?” Michael says. His and Geoff’s arms are cocked ever so slightly from the elbow—points of tension that signal they’re strapped.

Ray scoffs. “I wish.”

Geoff grits his teeth. “What. Happened.”

“Someone broke into my apartment last night.”

“ _What?_ ” He nearly shouts it.

“Why didn’t you _call_ us?” Jack demands. “Like, the _minute_ it fucking happened?”

“It was Ryan.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Geoff snaps.

“I’d sure fucking hope so. It’s Haywood.” A silent recognition immediately seizes the group. “The guy whose life history is on my computer.”

Below, along the shore, a jet ski skips and jumps waves. The tinny buzz of its engine is the only sound for a short minute.

“So,” Geoff says, cautiously, “he just...showed up at your house?”

“Yep. Armed and unannounced.” Ray grimaces. “And he drank one of my SmartWaters.”

“Wait,” Gavin says, “I don’t understand. Why would he want with _you_? Geoff’s the one who gets to let him, not you.”

“Exactly. Apparently, he thought otherwise. He’s been following us and must have heard that I’m the one who researched him, and assumed I was his red or green light.”

“Did he hurt you?” Jack asks.

Ray shrugs. “Nah.”

Michael scoffs. “Does it fucking _matter_? He could have given Ray a fucking _hug_ , but he still broke into Ray’s apartment...with a _gun_.”

Geoff isn’t talking yet, turned to look down at the beach. His sunglasses hide what his mind is doing.

“Well, what’d he say?” Jack says. “Did he take anything?”

“No. And he said that he ‘wanted to see me in person’ and to tell Geoff about the break-in, because he thought Geoff would ‘appreciate’ it.”

At last, Geoff pipes up. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Michael demands and Ray just covers his face, because he wasn’t expecting anything other than that answer. “Geoff—this psycho broke into Ray’s place because he wanted to intimidate Ray into _liking_ him. We gotta drop him before he starts stalking all of us.”

“He already is,” Ray says miserably, “remember? How else would he know who I was or that I was the one assigned to research him? He probably followed us to the club last night.”

“I don’t know,” Gavin says, “I’m kinda on Geoff’s side.”

“Gavin.” Michael pinches his eyes shut. “ _Please_ don’t make me hit you.”

“Oh, come on now!” Gavin protests. “So he’s bonkers, so what? He clearly wants to get into the Crew.”

Michael’s yelling now. “ _Four other dudes wants to get into the fucking Crew!_ It doesn’t matter! Just because you really, _really_ want something doesn’t mean you instantly _deserve_ it.”

“Fine,” Gavin says. “But he’s dedicated. And good at what he does, getting into Ray’s apartment. Christ, that must’ve taken some skill—that door has steel plating, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe he came through a window,” Ray says sarcastically. As always, Gavin sidesteps it.

“Geoff, what do you think?”

Geoff sighs. “I hate to say this— _really_ hate to say this, because it’s Gavin who fucking said it—but I agree.”

“ _Geoff_ ,” Michael moans angrily. “Come _ON_.”

“He didn’t injure Ray, probably brought the gun for protection, and didn’t steal anything. And he’s got cojones the size of Vice City, to break and enter a fucking Fake AH Crew member’s house. I say he’s in.”

Helplessly, Michael looks at Jack. He shrugs. “I third that. He seems like he’d be a valuable addition to the team.”

Three to two. 

“You agreed,” Michael says slowly, speaking and simultaneously trying to subdue his rage, “that we would at least _meet_ the guy first, before we made any decisions. And so far, only Ray has met him—more like ‘encountered’, actually.”

“Fine, we can meet him,” says Geoff. “If it’ll fucking make you happy.”

Michael’s nostrils flare, but the heat is ushered away from the icy look on Geoff’s face.

“You need to put your personal feelings aside, Michael. I agree with you 100% that he’s fucking crazy, but maybe we _need_ crazy. It took us a whole fucking year to work up the nerve to rob the Maze Bank Tower—this guy probably would have done it in fifteen minutes. And as long as he’s getting paid, _why_ would he kill us?”

Quietly, Michael says, “I still don’t like it.”

Geoff’s eyes soften. “I know, buddy. But I have a good feeling.”

“He could have killed Ray last night without anyone knowing, but he didn’t,” Gavin adds.

“It would look suspicious,” Ray says.

Gavin shrugs. “Or it could have been genius. If he killed one of us—especially the person who didn’t like him—he would not only get rid of the person who was keeping him from the Crew, but then we’d _really_ need to hire him because we were missing a member.”

They all turn to stare at him. He reaches up and scratches his neck. “What?”

“I don’t know what’s with him,” Geoff says, almost apologetically. “He’s gotten like, really smart all of a sudden.”

“Oh, shut up!” Gavin yells. They laugh in a loose, good-natured moment.

“Fine,” Ray says, “he could have killed me and didn’t. I still don’t trust him.”

“Pegasus won’t be able to fly in the vehicle until tomorrow morning,” Jack offers. “We could meet him some time tonight.”

Geoff nods. “That’s perfect. And it can be in one of _our_ clubs so in case you two are still paranoid he’s gonna open fire, he’ll be surrounded by our muscle.”

“What if we just straight up told him that he needs to _prove_ to us that he’s trustworthy? Most gangs today have loyalty hazing anyways. It wouldn’t be that hard.”

“Oh please,” Michael remarks dryly. “Unless we ask him to hand out balloons on the pier, whatever we tell him to do is gonna be all fun and games for him.”

“Sure, but it’ll show that he takes orders, won’t it?”

Petulantly, he says, “I guess.”

“Gavin,” Geoff says, pushing his sunglasses onto the crown of his head now that the sun’s positioned above the trees. “Call up the guy who gave us Haywood’s info and tell him to contact him. Six PM tonight.”

“On it.” Gavin pulls out his phone.

“Make it the gambling club. Some place where the security’s scarier than he is.”

“Should I wear Kevlar?” Ray deadpans. No one replies; Gavin raises the phone to his ear and turns. A pair of kids on a single bike ride past; the girl sitting on the handlebars.

“Sorry, Ray,” Michael mutters. Frustrated, Ray just looks toward the sea.

The dog is running through the waves now, trying to retrieve the Frisbee which floats on the water; every time he gets near it, though, the tide pulls it out, or pushes it further toward the shore. His owner has to run over and grab it for him.

“Okay,” Gavin says, and hangs up. “He said he’ll pass the message.”

Ray, more or less, knows how the dog feels. 

——

At noon in Sandy Shores, Trevor Philips walks into a bar.

There’s no punchline, because the bar itself is the joke and punchline in one: it’s barely staying afloat, surviving on nothing but the tender of local alcoholics, and falling apart at the seams. Too bad it’s the only one around for miles.

Two of said alcoholics, men in their sixties named Henry and Darrell, are the only ones in today, sitting at the bar and watching the black and white TV mounted on the wall. 

Seeing it, Trevor immediately flinches. “Oh God...turn it off.”

“Can’t, sugar,” replies the ancient bartender, in a tank and shorts in spite of miles of saggy skin and fat. “We can only turn the volume down.”

“Then change the fucking channel,” he says. “Fuck. I don’t wanna see another minute of those _assholes_.”

“Only one channel, and you’re looking at it.”

“Whatever.” He sits on a barstool. “Whiskey on the rocks.”

“What’s wrong, Trevor?” asks Henry. His white beard is so thick and untamed, it’s hard to tell if he even has a mouth. “Mad that ‘those assholes’ are stealing your thunder?”

“Shut the fuck up, Henry,” Trevor snaps. The bartender sets his drink down in front of him. “For your information, I’ve _met_ them, and there’s nothing special about them. I don’t know why Los Santos is creaming itself over them at all.”

“I think it’s justified,” Darrell says. “They might be just another scumbag gang, but they’re something special, alright. I heard the guy who runs the whole thing, Geoff Ramsey, has been arrested twenty times since he moved to Los Santos nine years ago.”

“Oh, Ramsey runs this town,” Henry says. “You know last year, he told his guys to kill cops, for a _game_? LSPD lost five guys that day. That’s some fucked up shit.”

“Yeah, Trevor,” Darrell says. The men are frighteningly in-sync in how they taunt him. “Killing rednecks and bikers is impressive, but killing cops is next level shit.”

“How many cops have _you_ killed, Trevor? For fun?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Trevor growls, throwing back his drink in one sip. “ _FUCK._ Fucking refill that.”

“Say please,” the bartender mutters. He glares at her.

“If you ask me,” he says gruffly, “I think they give criminals a bad name. Crime isn’t about _games_ —it’s a fucking _business_ , a way of life. The way they treat it, it’s a hobby and some special fucking badge they can flash to get their way with one lousy city in Southern California.”

Henry chuckles. “Whatever you say.” 

Right then, Trevor’s phone rings, only stoking the fire in his blood. It’s been blowing up all night, but he’s been high to care. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles and steps out to answer it. Henry and Darrell go back to watch the Fake AH Crew on TV.

Outside, Trevor grunts, “What?”

It’s Franklin.

——

For lunch, the Crew heads up to the Vinewood Hills (they put Gavin’s bike in the back of the Town Car, because they don’t hate him _that_ much.) The restaurant is as luxurious as the rest of the properties in the Hills, with waterfalls trickling on both walls in the main foyer, black granite floors, valet parking, and forty dollar steak. 

They fit right in.

“Mr. Ramsey,” purrs the blonde at the counter. All servers are clad in black and white. “Table for five?”

He smiles, and his arrogance is not unjustified. He’s the greasiest and simultaneously richest man in the building. 

Just then, his phone rings. The caller ID rings MICHAEL DE SANTA.

“Oh God,” Geoff mutters, pressing Decline. “Not today, fucker. I’m trying to have a nice lunch.”

“Who are you kidding, Geoff?” Michael says. “You’re a workaholic.”

Geoff opens his mouth, when his phone interrupts his again. This time, to be exceptionally cruel, he lets it go to voicemail.

Until it goes off again.

“Oh my _God_ ,” he says, agitated. “What the fuck? What does he want?”

“Maybe you should take it,” Gavin says uncertainly. “It seems urgent.”

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s life or death,” Geoff mutters, putting his phone on silent. “It’s my day off.”

Then Jack’s phone rings.

“Unknown number,” he reads grimly. But they know who it is.

“Jesus Chr—fine. Give me that.” Geoff snatches the phone and hits Accept. His chirpy “Howdy, Michael!” rings in the room. 

All of them are quiet—the Crew has a habit of mirroring their boss—as he listens. Even with the phone pressed to Geoff’s ear, Michael’s voice is audibly frantic on the other line. 

“...Are you shitting me,” Geoff says finally. He’s not even fake-smiling now.

“What is it?” the Michael beside him mouths. Ray gets the feeling he already knows.

“I—okay. And when was this supposed to go down?” Geoff sounds suddenly tired. “Okay Fine. I’ll deal with it. Yes. Thank you for letting me know.”

He hangs up. “Fucking _Trevor_.”

“Oh no,” Jack says, taking his phone back. “What’s wrong _now_?”

“Well,” Geoff sighs, “apparently he’s not happy that we’re not even offering a deal, so sometime tomorrow night he’s taking his goons down here to do God knows what.”

Collectively, they all start protesting, with Michael’s wailed, “ _Are you serious!?_ ” rising above the squabble. An approaching waitress with five menus under her arm hesitates.

Geoff waves her off, the men rising to leave. “Sorry. Emergency from work came up.” With a nod, she retreats.

Outside, Michael mutters, “‘Emergency from work.’ This is just fucking great.”

“What’s the big deal?” Ray says. “We’ve dealt with guys trying to kill us before.”

“No,” Geoff says, “we’ve dealt with hired hitmen and disposable contract killers trying to kill us. Never a deranged maniac who lit up a meth lab because he _fucking could_.”

“So we take him out first. Whatever he can get his hands on is no match for what we have, unless it’s a fucking nuke or something.”

“I’m not taking my chances. I get the feeling that if we don’t greenlight this fucker, he’ll never let up.”

“Fine,” Rays sighs, already bored. “We greenlight him. Put a bounty out on him, if that speeds things up, let someone else take care—”

“Wait.” Geoff stops mid-step, dead in the middle of the parking lot. Inspiration twinkles in his eyes. “ _Wait._ ”

They all stop while Geoff stands there, an unnerving and positively delighted grin on his face.

“We’re waiting, Geoff,” Gavin says uncertainly.

“Don’t you see? That’s fucking _perfect_.”

——

In the Phantom, Geoff has Gavin give Michael De Santa a call back. He gives them Trevor’s address and tells them, whatever “crazy shit you’re planning, good luck.”

——

Little Seoul is the ideal cover for an underground illegal gambling club, because virtually nothing exciting happens there.

Which is why Geoff buried one smack dab in the center.

The club’s sleazy and filtered with curtains of cigarette smoke and the odor of anxiety. Around six-fifteen, the Fake AH Crew strolls through the double doors, all freshly showered (boss’ orders) and in their cleanest clothes. The bouncers flanking the doors smile respectfully. 

“Evening, gentleman,” Geoff drawls, his tuxedo jacket slung over his shoulder. The immaculate blackness of his bowtie stands out against his crisp white shirt, which has been pushed up to the elbows to flaunt his tattoos. As always, an area in near the back wall has been roped off for them. 

The club’s busy tonight: mostly Koreans and desperate-looking white men play at the tables, a lot of them visibly sweating in spite of the club’s steady sixty degree temperature. It’s below an exquisite Korean restaurant, so Geoff puts in a request to a guard to fetch a waiter from upstairs. His nod is curt and his walk is swift. They’ve given menus a minute later.

“Oh,” Gavin exclaims, “Michael, let’s split the duck. I’m in the mood for waterfowl.”

Michael flips it open to the poultry page. “Jesus, a _whole_ duck? Fuck yeah, boi.” They fist-pound. 

“I hope I never understand your dynamic,” Jack remarks, which makes Ray and Michael laugh. 

“See, Ray?” Geoff says, leaning back in his chair. “Now we can have a nice meal after all _and_ we found something for our new friend to do without making it too easy on him.”

“A sweaty meth-addicted _redneck_ is supposed to intimidate him?”

“Well, who wouldn’t be intimidated by _that_ ,” Geoff says offhandedly. The menu distracts him: it’s open to the cocktail list.

“Oh, Geoff, Pegasus gave me a call earlier,” Jack says. None of them are trying to lower their volume, something they normally do even in loud, crowded rooms like this—even at the strip club yesterday, but not today. Not when most of the clientele are too busy losing their life savings. “And it’s ready.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“That’s what they said.”

“Shit,” Geoff whistles, “they’re getting better.”

“And Burnie said the money—”

“Yeah, yeah, he won’t stop texting me bragging. I swear, having so many good employees is fucking annoying at times.”

Michael laughs. “I’ll take a dude who won’t stop bragging over a dude who’s humble as fuck but can’t do jack shit.”

“So like, me versus Gavin?”

This time, they all laugh. Gavin just shakes his head. “So full of vinegar lately, Geoff.”

“Shut up, I adopted your ass.” Geoff ruffles Gavin’s hair before promptly fixing it. “I’m allowed to poke fun at you.”

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupts before them; looking up, it’s a man dressed all in black. He smiles coolly. “I was told you needed a waiter this evening.”

“Oh, yes,” Geoff says with a sharp clap. “I’ll have a bowl of the Yook Gae Jang, a Moscow Mule, and the spicy rice cake, blood sausage, and lobster medley. _Please_.”

“Of course.” Oddly, the man makes no move to write that down. He doesn’t even wear an apron. Not that Geoff notices, or Michael, the one _does_ notice, cares—all he can do is watch how the man looks at Ray, who’s next to Geoff and presumably next in line: how his smile has grown crueler, to a smirk. How Ray just stares at him coldly with his menu folded closed.

“And you?” the man asks softly, with the thinnest splash of a taunt.

When Ray doesn’t answer, Gavin, Jack, and Geoff look at him, too. Geoff does the math first, though, eyes skidding quickly between Ray and the “waiter.”

“...I thought you’d be more...evil looking,” is the first thing out of his mouth. 

Ryan raises his brows. “Geoff, that wounds me.”

“Wait,” Michael says, holding out a hand. “This is _him_?”

“I’m a little early. But yes. I am him.”

Michael sizes him up. They all do, in a collective moment of quiet. “Wow,” he proclaims. “Even after I’ve seen your picture, you are not what I was expecting.”

“That stings,” Ryan comments with a small smile. “But I anticipated hazing.”

“Oh, where are my manners? Please, sit,” Geoff says, gesturing to one of the free stools on the other side of the table. Ryan takes a seat. “Would you like to see a menu?”

“I’m alright.”

“So, if the mustache didn’t give it away, I’m Geoff. Ramsey. And these are my associates, Jack Pattillo, Michael Jones, Gavin Free, and Ray Narvaez, Jr.”

Ryan’s eyes slide to Ray. “We’ve met.”

“How’d you know we needed a waiter?” asks Ray flatly. “Spying on us again?”

Ryan’s look is vicious and unapologetic. “Probably.”

Behind him, an actual waiter, apron and all, enters the room. They place their orders while Ryan’s sits unmoving, elbows on the table, hands folded before his mouth. He doesn’t turn once, even when the waiter asks for his order. His “Nothing, thank you,” is projected toward them.

But mostly Ray. Ryan’s eyes hardly budge from him.

“So Ryan,” Geoff says, “I’ve been told you’d like to sign with my fine organization.”

“That you did.” Only now does he look away, to Geoff.

“Well, you should know that I was impressed with what I saw.” Geoff twirls the gold band on his right ring finger. “ _Very_ impressed. I think you could be a worthwhile addition to the Fake AH Crew.”

The corner of Ryan’s mouth ticks. “I hear a ‘however’ coming.”

Geoff nods. “Understand, while I’d like to hire you, it’s important that myself and my crew have established some sort of agreement. And currently, that’s a little rocky.”

“Perfectly understandable.” Ryan glances to and from Ray so subtly and quickly, it rivals a snake strike. “And if harmony can’t be reached, I get it.”

“Not yet.” The waiter arrives again, having managed the precarious and impressive task of carrying a tray of full water glasses down a long flight of stairs. Geoff continues after he’s gone: “But there’s a chance it can be. As soon as tomorrow night, even.”

“Oh really?”

Geoff sips his water. “Really. Because you were right about the hazing thing: we got a bigass assignment lined up for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Does the name Trevor Philips mean anything to you?”

“It should. He was responsible for the death of the entire Lost MC.”

“That he was. A pretty ruthless guy.” Geoff takes another drink. “Dangerous, even to people like us. And this morning, he put a hit out on us—which he intends to satisfy himself.”

Ryan nods. Geoff looks away for a fraction of a second, and it’s unnatural how in-tune with it Ryan is; every time Geoff’s eyes move away, Ryan’s look at Ray. Like he does now.

“We want you to kill him,” Michael cuts in, “is the point of all this.” Geoff nods. “Consider that your test, because, I’m not gonna lie to you, buddy: I don’t trust you. I need to know you won’t turn on me. We all do.”

Ryan smiles pleasantly. “I understand. And I’m not offended. I admire men who are thorough in their investments.”

“Good,” Michael says. He seems, for once, pleased with that response. 

Geoff scribbles onto the napkin—those eyes flash in Ray’s direction again, then snap away—and slides it across the table. “The top line is the home address. If he’s not home, the bottom line is the address of a local bar he’s planning to visit that night.

“If you catch him at home, it’s pretty self-explanatory. But if you don’t, track him to the bar and do whatever it takes to keep him from leaving. Drug him, get him drunk, knock him over, suck his fucking dick— _whatever_. Because the minute he leaves that building, killing him will be messy, and if we lose him, tracking him could be a pain in the ass.”

Ryan opens his jacket and drops the napkin into a pocket. “Got it.”

“We can provide you with a weapon,” Geoff says, “assuming you don’t have any, that is.”

“Oh, I’m well-stocked in that department.”

“I figured as much.” The appetizers arrive, and there’s a long moment where they dig in. Ray thanks God for the distraction of food, a more appealing place to settle his gaze whenever Ryan stares at him (like he probably is now.)

“You should know,” Ryan says, pausing for a measured drink of water. “I have conditions.”

Geoff glances up, flakes of spring roll shell in his mustache. “Which are?”

“Well—it’s more like a _condition_ , singular.” 

And whether it’s something in his tone or how the ghost of that smile looks particularly evil, Ray knows immediately what it is.

“No,” he says.

Ryan doesn’t look at him now: a subtle display of the power he wields. “Pardon me?”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Excuse me,” Geoff interrupts, “did I miss something? Did you two have a discussion earlier about this or some shit?”

“No,” Ryan says, “it just seems that Ray is already an expert at reading me.”

“He wants me to go with him,” Ray says. No eye contact, but the subtle shadows over Ryan’s face show he’s never been more pleased. “I’m not fucking doing it.”

“Well no, that’s actually a great idea,” Geoff proclaims ( _Of course it fucking is_ , Ray thinks miserably). “That way, if something goes wrong or Trevor leaves the bar, one of you can be waiting to ambush him.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Ryan says smoothly. His pleasure is audible and gives his words a velvety quality. “And I feel that working together would help Ray trust me more—because clearly he doesn’t.”

“You broke into his fucking house,” Michael says, mouth a little full. “I wouldn’t trust you either.”

Ryan’s gaze is cool enough that a layer of frost can conceal his fury. “And yet, you still don’t.”

“You got me there.”

“We can arrange for the both of you to take out the hit,” Geoff says; he actually has his napkin tucked into his shirt. “And Ray, we’d give you a weapon, of course.”

“And I don’t get a say in this, of fucking course.”

“Come on, Ray: compromise.”

“Whatever,” he mutters. He knows, if he argues, Ryan will find a way to convince Geoff.

“Holy _crev_ , Michael,” Gavin exclaims suddenly. Across the room, a brocade of waiters enter with their food. “ _Look at our duck!_ ”

“Gavin,” Michael says solemnly, “tonight, we dine like fucking _kings_.”

“Bet you regret not ordering something now, huh?” asks Jack as, one by one, the table fills with heaping plates of food. Steam rises off of every dish, and the aroma is virtually overwhelming.

Ryan shrugs. “Nah,” he says. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

When Ray looks up, Ryan winks. Ray wants to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trevor will have a pretty vital role in this next chapter; I ADORED his character in GTA V, but it gets pretty fucked-up, so proceed with caution.
> 
> (Oh, and if you're wondering how I'm posting chapters in literally fifteen minutes, about 75% of this story has already been pre-written.)


	4. Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gets EXCEPTIONALLY gory and vile, so please be advised. There's a very violent, arguably noncon scene toward the middle. 
> 
> Trevor's portrayal here is something that I hesitated to finalize. On the one hand, a lot of his actions in this are based on personal interpretations from the game's dialogue and scenes, but on the other, I'd like to believe that I kept his characterization fairly canon, so therein lies a conflict. Hopefully he's not painfully OOC.

**FROM THE FEBRUARY 2011 EDITION OF _EDGE_ MAGAZINE** :  
_The café I’m asked to attend in East Los Santos more resembles a Hooters than a Denny’s; the waitresses are all nines and white with pearly teeth, pink lips, and hotpants so thin I can tell the color of nearly every server’s underwear. The woman who greets me at the counter is named “Strawberries” according to her nametag—I wager the guess that it’s after her red hair—and tells me that “Mr. Ramsey is seated at a booth by the window.”_

_It’s lunch hour and the café is bustling (understandably, most of the patrons are men.) But as pleasant of eye candy as the waitresses are, their miles of exposed skin is nowhere near as magnetic as the vibe “Mr. Ramsey” gives off._

_Geoffry Lazer Ramsey is thirty-five years old, five eleven, and covered in tattoos. His skin is pale, his hair short and a dark reddish-brown, face clean-shaven save for the immaculate carnie mustache. Sunglasses sit on the crown of his head as he leans back against the booth, arm splayed along the back, texting as I approach. I greet him, and when he looks up, his eyes are blue, icy in color, but warm in quality. His hand is cold as he shakes mine; the back of his hand flaunts a series of marine tattoos, the most prominent a ship’s wheel. His knuckles spell out “CUNT.”_

_Ramsey is not officially a celebrity, but he informally he’s a star. He’s of average height and weight, but his presence is subtly commanding and occupies the entire room. When his smiles, his eyes twinkle and his strange beauty becomes feminine in quality, with teeth that rival the waitresses’. He chuckles a few times, but when I quip about the quality of our appetizers, his laugh is loud, uncensored, and borders on hysteria; it’s as lyrical as a poem._

_He’s also five on the LSPD’s Most Wanted list._

_Not that you would know that, if you somehow had never heard of him (Ramsey’s recognized everywhere, from restaurants to clubs scenes to just walking down the street; he confesses he’s been asked for autographs and selfies with fans.) The atmosphere surrounding him is casual and friendly, for the most part, which is more than can be said for most people of his stature. Everything about Ramsey, in fact, conflicts with who he ought to be: the neon pink of his sunglass frames, the tuxedo he’s almost never seen without, and his presence on social media. His Instagram account is up there with Kim Kardashian’s in popularity, and his Twitter boasts a staggering 16 million followers. He interacts with people who Tweet him and shares countless pictures of “his friends” (as he puts it), the Fake AH Crew. His captions and hashtags are often poignantly witty. Most men in Ramsey’s “business” hide who they are. But he and his “friends” changed all that._

_Ramsey tells me he came to Los Santos at the age of thirty; he doesn’t specify where he came from, but I’m expecting this. No one knows anything about Ramsey’s childhood, parents, or place of birth. As far as the public’s concern, Ramsey’s life started at the age of sixteen, when he was arrested for shoplifting—the first of many. Our food arrives—Ramsey does not own the café, but they wisely tell him it’s on the house—as he tells me about his early endeavors: buying a property in South Los Santos where he “worked with certain people I don’t think I should be telling a magazine about,” he says, winking at me. I’m impressed with his bravado, even without the information._

_For the past three years, the LSPD has been championing for Ramsey’s arrest, after he branched away from his “coworkers” and formed the Fake AH Crew, which was originally a three-man outfit: himself, his oldest friend Jack Pattillo, and Ramsey’s adopted son Gavin Free, who’s thirteen years Ramsey’s junior and had recently dropped out of high school when the two of them arrived at Los Santos. Ramsey’s clearly bursting with pride over his employees, but he speaks fondly of these two in particular, boasting about Pattillo’s genius with car mechanics and telling me how they met when high school senior Ramsey saw an eleven-year old Pattillo getting taunted by classmates on the streets of Austin, Texas, their hometown, and went to defend him. To this day, in spite of Pattillo being twenty-nine to Ramsey’s thirty-five, considers him his “little brother.” He smiles broadly when he says this._

_When talking about his adopted son, Ramsey describes Free as “admittedly, a bit of an idiot. Okay, wrong word: he’s a_ complete _idiot, but I love the fucking kid. I used to do a lot of travelling and when I was twenty-five, I went to London, and there’s this little kid in the airport walking around looking for his parents. He runs up to me and goes—” here, Ramsey affects a British accent “— ‘Excuse me, mistah, can you help me find my mum and dah?’ And I felt bad, because he was like, twelve years old and had to ask total strangers for help. But when I took him to security and his parents showed up, it was obvious they’d kinda wished he’d stayed lost. Didn’t even fucking say thank you, just grabbed his arm and dragged him away. The kid waved goodbye to me and even with his dad clamping down on his tiny-ass wrist, he still looked happy as could fucking be. I knew I had to do something about it. My dad was a monstrous drunk when I was his age. I know how that fucking is.”_

_Ramsey goes on to detail how he ordered a cab to follow the parents and staked out their flat. He and Free developed a sort of friendship after Free noticed him in his rental car, and two weeks later, packed his bag and caught the first plane with Ramsey to America. “So,” Ramsey says, “he’s more like my ‘stolen’ son than ‘adopted.’ But ‘adopted’ sounds nicer.”_

_Ramsey, for what it’s worth, has a good heart in him. He’s responsible for countless murders of criminals and cops (the Crew has never once killed a witness), but, if you knew better, you’d say that’s exactly where their popularity comes from: Los Santos, in recent years, has grown so that even decent tax-paying citizens hate their police force. A department riddled with countless accusations of sexual assault, brutality, abuse of power, and racism, the city seems ready to banish all forms of law enforcement because even the concept of total anarchy is more appealing than its current situation. The famous incident last year in which Ramsey staked a sadistic “game” for his gang to play—shoot (not necessarily kill) as many cops as possible in a twenty-four hour period for a 20% cut from their next heist—gained national headlines and left fourteen LSPD officers wounded and five dead. Four more would later go on to die from their injuries._

_“Amazingly,” Ramsey says when I mention the incident, “Gavin won.”_

_The other two members of the Fake AH Crew, Michael Jones and Ray Narvaez, Jr., were introduced to the Crew within two months of each other. Ramsey seems especially entertained by Jones’ initiation story; the Crew’s lawyer, the highly-sought-after Burnie Burns, was visiting a client in prison when a fight broke out at the table behind them that resulted in a dead inmate. The survivor was a mere five feet and eight inches tall with a head full of curly, reddish-brown hair, freckles, and a screaming, rage-filled voice that belonged to someone a foot taller, loudly proclaimed his victory even as he was dragged away. Burns knew immediately: he’d found the next Crew member._

_Ramsey doesn’t share how Burns managed to acquire Jones, but I don’t ask._

_Narvaez’s admission is what Ramsey describes as “my own little pet project. All of our guys had come from money: Michael was from a rich Catholic family in New Jersey, Jack’s parents had their own business and were fucking_ rolling _in it, I seriously doubt Gavin’s parents were rich but I raised that kid like a king—but Ray, he’d come from_ rags _, dude. His dad had tried to raise him on his own with like, no income after his mom split town and there were a lot of days he didn’t eat at all. I felt for him.” Ramsey smiles fondly. “Plus he’s funny as hell and knows how to be quiet. And when you’re in our business, quiet is good. When he showed up last year wanting in—we had put it out there that were looking for a fifth guy—the rest of the team was skeptical, but I felt it, dude.” He taps his forehead. “My intuition is never wrong.” He also describes how the rest of the group embraced Narvaez’s admission: perhaps due to their shared newness, Jones in particular bonded with him immediately._

_Even fifteen years ago, seeing a crime lord out in public, let alone sitting down with one for lunch and conducting an interview, was fiction. Ramsey and his gang are straight out of Capone’s realm: they walk around in broad daylight, procure more money than the rest of us can only dream of us, and are treated like the heroes Los Santos deserves. Ramsey wears tuxes while the rest of them dress averagely, get sodas at convenience stores, and would sign a headshot for you if you asked. The Fake AH Crew has earned a rep for seeming fictional, and for good reason; even sitting across from Ramsey, I myself can’t believe he’s a real person, that the Fake AH Crew is a real thing that’s descended upon the city, that these people he’s describing exist._

_But they are, and as Ramsey says fondly, leaning back, “Oh, we’re real. And Los Santos fucking_ loves _it.”_

__

——

The next day, when Gavin and Michael walk into Ray’s apartment at 4:02 in the afternoon, he’s out cold on the couch.

“Seriously?” Michael mutters—not that he needs to be quiet. Ray can sleep through a hurricane. “Since when does he think Geoff lets us sleep in?”

It explains why he isn’t answering his phone, which Geoff blew up with fourteen missed calls. That’s why they’re here. Intercepting Trevor is planned for 5:00 PM.

“Ray,” Gavin says gently, nudging Ray’s shoulder. Ray flops partially, then bats Gavin away. “Get up, Ray. It’s time for—”

“I know what fucking time it is,” Ray mumbles, face pressed into the pillow. The handful of times he’d woken up, he’d dreaded this moment. 

“Geoff’s pissed,” Michael says. “He says the next time you sleep in on a work day is ‘over his dead fucking body.’”

“Fine.” Ray throws the covers off. “I’ll apologize later. Give me a minute to shower and get dressed.” He’s still in last night’s outfit, right down to the socks. 

“Why’d you sleep in so late, Ray?” Gavin asks. 

Ray, halfway to his bedroom, spins around with a pointed look.

“Right,” Gavin says, brow knit. “Stupid question.” Geoff would be proud.

——

Jack’s cliffside estate is at the highest point of Vinewood Hills, looking over the other houses like a glass-and-steel angel The only way to reach it is to access a private road behind a mechanized iron fence and wind your way up the cliff on a mile-and-a-half trek. Wholly through Geoff’s instruction.

An unknown black sedan is sitting in the driveway beside the Phantom. Ray can guess who it belongs to.

Ryan is on Jack’s long, cream-colored sectional, and the leather jacket has returned. Geoff’s before the flatscreen—martini in hand—and talking animatedly. The wall behind him is made entirely of glass; beyond, the entirety of Los Santos is unfurled like a twinkling quilt.

“ _Ray!_ ” he crows when Gavin, Ray, and Michael appear behind the sectional. “So nice of you to _finally_ fucking show up.”

“Slept in,” Ray grunts.

“Yeah, I know.” Geoff’s tone is hostile and playful all at once. “You know how I fucking am about that.”

Ray shrugs. “I’m sorry. I forgot to set alarm.”

Geoff plucks the olive from his glass. “I love you dearly, Ray, so I’ll let it slide, because at least you’re _here_. If you were Gavin, on the other hand…” 

“Oh God,” Ray says, “let’s not go there.” The atmosphere loosens with a collective laugh.

“Come here, assholes. You still have a few minutes before it’s time.”

Ryan has his legs kicked up on the coffee table—something Jack has never let people do, but one look at Ryan says that he wasn’t given permission, he just did it. His face is self-assured and cool as he reads something on his phone. Even when Ray sits on the sectional (as far as humanly possible from Ryan), he doesn’t look up. 

“Ray,” Geoff says, “Jack’s arranging for your piece, but the plan is, either cover Ryan at Trevor’s place or shadow him at the bar.”

“Right.”

“Easy in, easy out. If things look like they’re getting messy, you intervene, but contact needs to be minimal. This guy’s an addict and has been doing this shit his whole life. He’ll know if something’s up.”

“What if he has friends? Didn’t your intel say he was going with buddies?”

“Gavin and Michael sat on his house all day and it sounds like he plans to meet them tonight around eleven. We’re not sure where, but it’s like even Trevor thinks they’re fucking retards. So they won’t be much of a problem, even after they find out.” Geoff finishes his drink. “Oh, and this morning Jack bribed Lester, so you’ll tail them with a signal jammer, in case Trevor tries to call someone.”

“Sounds good,” Ray says as Jack walks in. The handgun he hands Ray is a Glock with an extended clip; he slides it into the waistband of his jeans.

“Sorry,” Jack says. “We couldn’t find one that was pink.”

——

It feels like it’s midnight when Ray and Ryan descend the steps.

“What are you doing?” Ray asks when Ryan approaches the sedan—not that he wants to say anything. He’d prefer to keep conversation between them at a minimal tonight.

“Getting into my car,” Ryan says dryly. “We’re can’t very well walk, can we?”

“You wanna take _that_ piece of shit over a Benz?”

A thin smile. “Well, this piece of shit will blend in a lot better than a crimson red Mercedes, now won’t it?”

And fine. _Fine._ He has a point there.

The car is clean almost in an obsessive way and has no odor to speak of; it’s like climbing into a sterile box. The back windows are tinted almost completely black and when Ryan drives, he never uses two hands, even to turn the sharp corners on Jack’s hill, and has an almost expert command over the vehicle. He turns the wheel smoothly and it never feels like he’s going too fast or two slow. The bumps in the road are virtually erased by his driving. 

Sandy Shores isn’t that long of a drive from Vinewood Hills—a thirty minute drive in tonight’s traffic—and Ray spends the majority of it staring out the window. The pistol digs into his back, so he leans forward.

Ryan says, “I’m flattered you’re willing to break rules for me.”

Ray says nothing.

“To be honest, I’m surprised they let _me_ drive. I would think Geoff would want to escort me personally if I’m so ‘dangerous.’ I mean—” He utters a wry chuckle. “I could be taking you somewhere to kill you.”

“It’s not Geoff who thinks you’re dangerous,” Ray mutters.

“I know. But it’s not Geoff whose house I broke into.”

“Maybe you should have. He would have hired right there and we could have skipped this whole fucking thing.”

Ryan smiles, immune to Ray’s venom. “Maybe. But where’s the fun in that?”

Twenty minutes later, they pull up to Trevor Philips’ trailer.

Ryan parks across the street and cuts the engine. “I’m going around the back to look into one of his windows.”

Ray peers out the window. “There aren’t any lights on.”

“But there’s a car in the driveway, so I should at least check.” Ryan smirks. “Maybe he’s sleeping in, too.”

“Fuck you,” Ray laughs, surprising himself and _really_ surprising Ryan, who arches his brows.

“Wow,” he remarks. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh.”

“I do that from time to time.”

Ryan smiles. “I’ll be right back.”

Ray slips the pistol from his jeans as Ryan exits the car, keys still in the ignition. He boldly crosses the road in full view of the trailer—Ray doesn’t even think he’s armed—and walks right onto the property, disappearing around the back. Ray inspects the car in the driveway; it’s an ancient-looking Jeep Wrangler that doesn’t appear to be functional. One of the front tires isn’t even on it.

They see this a lot at target’s houses. They think one car in front of the house will deter a hitman. It looks like Trevor didn’t even half-ass it. 

A few seconds later, Ryan reappears in the driveway. He shakes his head.

Ray calls Geoff to update him, and hangs up just as Ryan opens the driver’s side door. “All of the lights were out and I heard no movement. My guess is he’s at that bar we were told about.”

“Right. Geoff said to make it ‘quick and smooth.’”

Ryan starts the car. “Well, it’s his lucky day, because that just happens to be my style.”

——

About three blocks from the bar, Ryan suddenly blurts out, “Wait a minute.”

“What?” Ray asks. “You leave the oven on?”

They’re at a red light, and Ryan turns to look at the street signs. “I think I might know where we’re going.”

Ray frowns. “Okay. Is that bad?”

“Depends.” The light turns green and Ryan eases on the accelerator. “Did Geoff mention anything about a place called ‘The Red Heel’?”

“Uh…” Briefly, Ray combs his memory. “The name sounds familiar, so probably.”

Ryan laughs under his breath. “Ray. That’s a gay bar.”

“...Get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m serious!” Ryan says, laughing more. “Those high school kids last year hazed one of their friends by sending him in there and he wound up getting drugged or something.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ray says. “That sounds like heaven for Trevor.”

“Oh God,” Ryan says quietly, “I think I might know the best way to distract him if that’s the case.”

“What, subdue him with your good looks?” Ray jokes. Ryan grins.

“You think I’m good-looking?”

“Do you understand the concept of a joke?”

“That stings, Ray,” Ryan chuckles as the bar looms up, a whitewashed concrete building with the sign bright red, neon, and punctuated by a stiletto shoe next to the name. “I like it.”

——

The Red Heel is enormous on the inside, with a high, rectangular ceiling and low mood lighting. There’s a dance floor, thumping electronica, and a whole manner of men in spangly outfits, bright colors, and wild makeup carrying trays of drinks and cheap food.

At least it’s tame, for the most part. There’s maybe three or four dudes crossing into first base (and two that look like they’re almost at third but think no one can tell), and the bouncer doesn’t try to flirt with them as he gruffly demands ID. He’s easily 6’6”, with hairy arms, a shaved head that gleams in the strobe lights, and a tattoo that reads “ _As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no man, because I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley._ ” 

Ryan’s license—Ray catches a glimpse of it as Ryan slips it into his wallet—says his name is Cooper MacPhearson from Bakersfield. He shoots Ryan an odd look.

“What?” Ryan says. 

“A fake ID? Really?”

“Yeah?” Ryan frowns. “What, you don’t do that in the _Fake_ AH Crew?”

Ray laughs curtly. “Uh, no? We don’t need to, since nobody really sees them. Most people know who we are.”

Ryan looks at him for a long minute—studying him—then says, “Interesting.” As if that somehow makes sense. 

Ray just shakes his head and beelines for an empty table by the front wall. A dude a few tables over unabashedly stares at him, which Ray makes a point of ignoring; Ryan’s staring helped immunized him, it seems.

Ryan comes up behind him suddenly and slides an arm around Ray’s waist, making Ray yelp. “Um, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Keep your voice down,” Ryan says calmly, eyes ahead. “And we’re in a _gay bar_ , Ray. God forbid I try to blend in.”

When Ray twists his head, Ryan’s smile practically _begs_ him to object.

“Just blending in, huh?” Ray says dryly.

Ryan pulls Ray against him. “Yessir.” Ray suppresses the blush filling his cheeks. 

“Do you see him?” Ray asks when they sit down. Ryan nods without turning to indicate where. He’s efficient but cautious, Ray’s noticed: the fake ID, the way he moves through the club making eye contact with guys and leaning toward Ray over the intimately placed candle. He hates to admit, but the guy’s good.

“At the bar.” Ryan grins. “Guy like him stands out in a place like this.”

Without trying to be obvious, Ray checks over Ryan’s shoulder, and almost immediately finds Trevor: sitting by himself at a lonely end of the bar, nursing a beer. His wifebeater is stained, his Timberlands are caked in mud, and even from here, his hair is visibly greasy. 

“What are you thinking?”

“Improvising.”

“Improvising?”

“To the best of my ability.” Ryan’s eyes twinkle and Ray instantly understands his intention.

“Oh, dude,” he says gravely.

“What?”

“Really? Trying to get with _that_ just to get into the Crew?” Ryan’s expression, if anything, gets more wicked, and Ray shakes his head. “You’re one weird, desperate fucker.”

Ryan shrugs. “What, like I haven’t been with guys before?” He stands, tossing a twenty on the table. “Get yourself something to eat. This could take a while.”

Then he heads for the bar, leaving Ray dumbfounded, stunned, and aware that he;s in way over his head.

——

As Ryan climbs onto the bar stool, he makes a point of rolling up the sleeves of his jacket.

According to his ex-wife, he has spectacular arms (one of the nicest things she had to say about him), and Trevor bites almost instantly, shooting a discrete look Ryan’s way as he orders one of the foofy-but-delicious-looking cocktails. His eyes gravitate to the slightly faded but intricate tribal dragon that coils around Ryan’s forearm. 

“Nice ink,” Trevor says. 

Ryan looks at him without turning his head. “Thanks.” He squints, focusing on the tattoo across Trevor’s neck: a dashed line with “CUT HERE” printed below it. Charming; he cracks a smile. “I like yours.”

“Hey, you don’t have to lie, buddy.” Trevor sips his drink. “Friend of mine inked me a long time ago. Thought it’d be funny.”

The bartender returns with Ryan’s drink, an elegant-looking purple cocktail that gradually turns white near the top of the glass. Ryan takes a long, luxurious drink before turning back to Trevor.

“You know, you don’t really look like the type.”

Trevor shoots him a look. “Excuse me?”

Ryan laughs. “Come on, man, you know what I mean. The type that comes into places like this.”

Trevor scowls. “Well fucking excuse for me not looking like I’m twelve years old with perfect skin and hair.”

“Oh please,” Ryan says, popping the cherry into his mouth. Briefly, he closes his eyes. “I didn’t mean like that. You’re perfectly handsome—I just meant you don’t like look a twinky piece of garbage who wears neon and paints his nails. You look like an actual man.”

“Oh.” Trevor clearly doesn’t know what to do with that comment. “Thanks, I guess. So do you.”

“Glad I decided to skip out on the skirt tonight.”

Trevor sits there for a while, awkwardly, kicking his shoes against the barstool rest. If Ryan notices his discomfort, he doesn’t show it, sucking down his cocktail and ordering another. “God,” he intones, “these are fucking _delicious_. What do you cut these with? Rum?”

“Rum and ginger beer,” the bartender confirms. He’s said “twinky trash”: a blueish fohawk, eyeliner, and a sequin champagne-colored tank top. He looks like a Boy Scout, or the kid the football team picks on, not a bartender. “If you want, gorgeous, I could teach you how to mix them later.” When he winks, the glitter on his eyelid twinkles.

“Oh, I might just take you up on that offer,” Ryan purrs, shooting the bartender a smoky look over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip. Ray, across the room, stares in utter disbelief.

So does Trevor, except his expression is tinged with rage. “What the fuck’s _wrong_ with you?”

“Hmm?” Ryan glances at him as if he’d forgotten he was there. 

“A minute ago you talk about how you don’t like twinks then you start fucking _flirting_ with one,” Trevor snaps, almost like he takes personal offense. Maybe he does.

“Well,” Ryan says, “not _all_ of them—my tastes are varied.”

Trevor rolls his eyes. “Fucking please. Your ‘tastes’ are the same as everyone else’s.”

Oh yeah. He definitely does.

“That’s not true. Not everyone wants to fuck an eighteen year old boy.” Ryan chuckles. “Hell, not looking like one, I know that’s true.”

“No, everyone wants to fuck someone who’s a solid ten,” Trevor says hotly. “I fucking hate this community sometimes. I’m lucky if I get tail even once a month.” He drinks his beer almost violently. “Maybe I should stick to women.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so pissy all the time,” Ryan says mildly.

Trevor chokes on beer. “ _What_ did you just say to me?” He practically yells it out.

“You heard me.” Ryan meets and holds his gaze. “It’s your attitude that’s driving guys away. Not your face.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Trevor seethes. “You think these faggots give a _damn_ about personality? Most of them go home with someone every night and they’re about as interesting as a fucking piece of paper.”

Ryan shrugs, taking another drink of his cocktail. “All I know is, you’re lucky you’re pretty”

“Oh I am, huh?”

“Yep.” Ryan sets the glass down. “Quite frankly, the minute I saw you I wanted to take you back to my hotel room. But I’m having second thoughts.”

Trevor seems startled by that remark. “You...I. Really?”

“Really.” Ryan takes out his phone. Every word, every motion he makes, is seductive and deliberate. And Trevor responds beautifully.

“You think I wanna fuck you?” he says, overly gruffly. Ryan smiles without looking up.

“Usually I’m the one who does the fucking.”

Trevor looks him over: dark denim jeans, black boots, black leather jacket with three white bands stitched around each elbow. Yet here he is, with a look on his face like he’s the hottest guy in the room—and maybe just because of that fact _alone_ , he is. Shaking his head, Trevor mutters, “You’re something else.”

Ryan sips his drink. “I get that from time to time.”

“I’ll fucking bet.” Trevor signals the bartender for another beer. “Fine. Maybe I’m not the kind of guy who takes it up the ass, though.”

“Like I said: _usually_ I’m the one on top.” Ryan’s smile is wicked. “I’m willing to make exceptions.”

“You are one bold motherfucker, I’ll give you that,” Trevor says. “Walking straight up to me. Even here, most guys buy you a drink first.”

“That so?” Ryan lifts his own glass. “Because I have a wallet.”

Trevor hesitates, and Ryan flags the bartender. “Another one of these for my friend here,” he says 

The bartender looks at him like he could so much better. Trevor sets his jaw.

“I’m not a faggot,” he makes a point of saying when the bartender walks away. 

Ryan smiles coolly. “Is that what you tell your wife?”

“No wife,” Trevor growls “It’s just the truth. I fuck women and I fuck men. End of story.”

“Fair enough. But you like men and you’re here—unless you were looking for a sport’s bar and got lost—so that’s good enough for me.” The bartender returns with another spectacular purple beverage (they must have them pre-made), and Ryan winks. “Thanks, doll.”

“So let’s say I went home with you,” Trevor says, as if he’s just teasing the idea—Ryan has to conceal his smile. “Or to your hotel, or fucking whatever. What then?”

Ryan cocks an eyebrow. His face is the epitome of arrogant seduction. “Are you asking me to talk dirty to you?”

“No,” Trevor snaps. Ryan chuckles. “Fuck you. I’m just asking. Trying to see if it’s worth my while.”

“‘Fuck me’?” Ryan repeats, slowly and deliberately. Trevor averts his eyes. “Well, I think you just summed up what’s going to happen right there.”

“Shut up.”

“Let me just cut to the chase, because you’re sitting there acting like you’re thinking about it, but I deal with men like you all the time: angry that you like men and angry that you want me to fuck you and angry that I’m not _begging_ to, that I just walked up to you like it was already goddamn _fact_.” Ryan drains the remainder of his glass.

Trevor stares at him for a long while. His cocktail is still untouched and will likely stay that way. “I can’t believe you just fucking said that to me.”

“I know what I want,” Ryan says quietly, looking him in the eye. “Do you?”

Unnerved by Ryan’s unyielding stare, Trevor says, “Maybe.”

“Then finish that drink I’m paying for and we can get out of here.”

“You know,” Trevor says mildly, “I don’t even know your name.”

Ryan blinks in his version of surprise. “That’s old-fashioned. But it’s Craig. You?”

“Trevor.” He takes a cautious sip of the cocktail, and his face brightens. “Oh shit, this is actually kind of good.”

Ryan chuckles. “I’ll call a taxi. You didn’t drive here, did you?’

“No. Car’s broken down so I took a cab.” Trevor wipes his upper lip. “You?”

“A friend drove me,” Ryan says, “but I’ll text him that I have a ride.”

——

**+1-619-0630-825** : Taking someone home. Don’t need a ride.  
 **Ray** : How’d you get this number??  
 **+1-619-0630-825** : How do you think? ;)  
 **+1-619-0630-825** : Follow us. I’m calling a cab.  
 **Ray** : Gotcha

——

Trevor Philips’ life ends quietly and covered in blood.

The hotel Ryan takes him back to is a four-star place in the Rockford Hills with a minivan-sized chandelier in the lobby, high-end monochromatic suites, mahogany bed frames, and eight dollar bottles of water at the minibar. It’s the kind of place Trevor never expected in a million years to find himself—let alone get murdered.

He calls Ryan “Craig” the entire time—between kissing when they initially stumble into the room, when they pause at the foot of the bed to practically rip their way from their clothes, as they fall backward on the luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets and Ryan can barely break away to undo the buttons of his shirt, and _especially_ when Ryan goes between Trevor’s legs and is surprised to find a decent cock with a nice shape and girth. 

“I thought I was the one doing the fucking” he chokes out when Ryan pulls back at last; the only response is a naughty look and a long, slow lick of his lips, which makes Trevor’s head fall back against the pillow as he moans.

“Believe me,” Ryan purrs, digging the lube out of the bedside table, “you won’t be complaining in a minute.”

“Oh yeah?” Trevor raises an eyebrow, still breathing hard. “Persuade me.”

Ryan’s responding smile is dangerous. 

Another “Craig”, this one the highest and loudest yet, as Ryan initially enters him. The sound makes Ryan shudder so hard it resonates in his dick. He’s a hell of a persuader.

The sex is hard and fast, because Trevor obviously isn’t expecting gentle and Ryan thoroughly enjoys the pained look of pleasure on the receiving man’s face. He’s always found sex, especially anal sex, isn’t as enjoyable without an element of pain—especially when he’s the one delivering it. He bucks his hips for himself and himself alone; the bed cracks against the wall in a rhythm that mirrors his own.

Trevor whispers, “Holy shit”, his last words ever, and his eyes close right as Ryan reaches to the bedside table and stabs him in the chest.

——

The knife is a tactical folding knife with a sharp, wide blade. He stabs Trevor between the ribs, driving the knife in a slanted, upward motion so it punctures the lung. Trevor’s eyes fly open, his body stunned by the assault but when his mouth drops open, a spurt of blood flies out in place of a scream. His right lung is already filling with blood.

Smiling, Ryan stabs him eighteen more times in his chest, arms, and stomach. By the fifth wound, it’s clear Trevor will die here tonight, but Ryan can’t stop. By eleven stabs, he’s doing so carelessly, meaninglessly, drunk on the blood that splatters all over him and pools on the bed. Trevor’s eyes are frozen as he lays dying, fixed on Ryan’s face, and the look of paralyzed horror and betrayal drives Ryan over the edge; still inside of him, Ryan eagerly fucks Trevor as his orgasm washes over him. The blood seeping between their bodies is warm and produces a sticky slap.

Once, when Ryan was fifteen, he murdered a hooker. He’d been at his father’s house, home from juvie and waiting for the right moment to murder him, when the whore his father had been fucking all afternoon slipped out of the bedroom and came out for a drink. She was completely naked except for her shoes, and ugly as sin: he was on the couch, watching TV, when she seemed to notice him for the first time and purred that she’d let him have a free go since his father had been “so good.” He strangled her and fucked her through it almost without meaning to; it was the first time he’d had sex and she had had her back arched, neck so enticing and so _there_ as she fake-moaned about how good he was. He couldn’t help himself. It was like he _had_ to, and to this day, when he’s alone, he’ll often recall the memory as his hand fumbles around in his pants. It was even better than killing his old man, which came an hour later with a butcher knife after he finished watching _Pulp Fiction_ with the whore dead beside him on the couch. He left the two of them there to go down to the convenient store for cigarettes, where he shot the cashier for refusing. Best night of his life.

This is better than that. A million, trillion times better.

Pulling out, Ryan sits on his knees for a minute, cock sensitive to the cold from his intense climax. Trevor’s still breathing, barely, as Ryan carefully rolls the sheets up, to ensure no blood drips to the floor. He runs a finger down the side of Trevor’s face, smearing a large droplet of blood; even nearly-dead, Trevor visibly flinches.

Ryan slips to the floor, gets his phone, and heads to the bathroom with it and the knife. He’s steady but quick, ensuring the blood stays on him.

**Ryan** : All done :)

His thumbs leave bloody prints, which he wipes off.

——

Using the card key Ryan left in the glove compartment, Ray unlocks the suite door.

“In here,” Ryan calls from the bathroom. The way the suite is positioned, the bedroom is on the other side of the living area. Out of Ray’s line of sight. 

Ryan is hunched over the sink, cleaning the blood off of his face, hands, and arms. The first thing Ray sees is Ryan’s back, muscular and blood-free—and there’s that “THE KING” tattoo, splayed across his shoulders—before he catches a glimpse of the mirror.

“...Oh my God.”

“Hey,” Ryan says, looking up and nonchalant about the fact that he’s covered in blood. 

“Ryan,” Ray says quietly. Ryan scrubs beneath his nails; the water in the sink is cherry red. “What did you _do_?”

Ryan smiles mischievously, like they’re schoolyard kids. “Check for yourself.” Ray’s heart drops. 

In the bedroom, what lies on the bed doesn’t resemble what it was an hour ago, talking to Ryan at the bar. There’s very little evidence that it’s a human being lying there in bed, except for for Trevor’s face, physical proof that he’s still, miraculously, horrifyingly _alive_. There’s so much blood, Ray can’t even tell at first that the sheets were originally white.

The shower turns on, and with a crackling gasp, the body whispers, “ _Help me_ ”; Ray can’t stand this. Going to the bathroom, he uses a tissue to retrieve the knife Ryan used. He returns and slits Trevor’s throat and finally lets him die. 

The shower squeaks off. Ray feels odd, staring at Trevor’s body. The first time he killed a man, he threw up after and couldn’t sleep for days (Geoff praised him for “holding on until the end; most guys lose it beforehand.”) Every time he closed his eyes, his mind replayed his own hand, extended before him, shooting a man in the chest. Like Trevor, he wasn’t exactly innocent: he was a small-time banger who had mugged Michael a while back and knifed him, responsible for the scar on the inside of Michael’s left arm. But after, Ray felt horrible. His life growing up might have been hard, but it was another _person_ , for God’s sake. He’d smoked more that weekend than he had in his entire life. He’d considered telling Geoff no before they could hire him. And after that, every time he’s killed someone, that familiar sickness will return to his stomach, at least for a minute. It’s almost always physical, though—the kind of men he kills doesn’t deserve guilt, remorse, or grief. 

He doesn’t feel strange looking at Trevor for the reasons he should—he should be upset, furious at the injustice that, for at least two minutes or more, a man, no matter how horrible, lay dying painfully and miserably. At the very least, his stomach should be churning, like always, and that’s exactly what terrifies him: is that it’s _not_. Standing still, he feels nothing. Nothing at all. 

Except Ryan’s breath on his neck, behind him. 

“Excuse me.”

Ray doesn’t move. “You could have at least let him die.”

“I thought I did.” Ryan pauses. All Ray hears is his own breathing. “You’re standing on my clothes, and as much as I’d love to see how much you weigh, I’ll give you the option of moving away first.”

“Oh.” Ray steps aside. “Sorry.” Ryan is fully naked beside him and his skin glistens with water as he tugs on his jeans. Ray averts his gaze; most of Ryan’s broad upper body—and a moon-shaped scar on Ryan’s thigh Ray couldn’t stop himself from noticing—is covered in scars. 

He can’t help himself. “How’d you get them?”

“Life,” Ryan answers. Ray things it’s a copout until Ryan’s in his in his gray henley and rolls the sleeves to the elbows, turning them up. “Most of these were from my father.”

They’re reddish but faded, perfectly round, and varying in texture. Cigarette burns. 

“Oh.”

Ryan smiles without warmth. “He couldn’t always find an ashtray.” He rolls up his sleeves. “Show and tell later. First call Geoff and tell him we have a body to bury.”

——

Geoff, after a solid minute of going off on Jack about how he “knew he was right _see Jack I’m NEVER WRONG_ ”, gives them the address of a dumping site near the Tataviam reservoir: the pass up there has been all but abandoned after Land Act deserted their dam project.

With Trevor’s sheet-wrapped body in the trunk—they use a maid cart and go out the back—the drive is long and quiet. It’s nearly one AM and a work day; the highway is virtually empty for miles. 

“I hope you don’t mind blood in your trunk,” Ray says at last, diffusing a tension only felt by him. He’s still unnerved by his reaction, disgusted over his very _lack_ of disgust. It feels important. Like the beginning of something. He doesn’t like it.

“It’s fine,” Ryan says. “I never drive the same car for long.”

 

“Wow.” Ray cracks a smile. “Fake ID, fake name, and now the car? You’re a master of disguise, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never had the privilege of fame,” Ryan says mildly, but there’s a smile in his voice, too. The beat the passes between them is comfortable. “Weird how murdering a guy together is what it took for you to warm up to me.”

“‘Together’? Hardly. You did all of the work.”

“I’m not the one who slit his throat.”

Ray’s breath catches. When he looks at Ryan, his face is even as it looks out at the road. 

“You saw that?” he asks.

Ryan smirks. “Of course? I wrapped him in the sheets, didn’t I? That was considerate of you: it probably would’ve taken ten minutes for him to bleed out.”

“I don’t know,” Ray murmurs. “He was a bad guy, but I don’t think too many people deserve a slow death, y’know?”

“Oh, if anything, I’m jealous,” Ryan says. “I could never do something like that. Putting people out of their misery is an honorable thing to do.”

Ray snorts. “Compared to _what_?”

Ryan smiles, but doesn’t reply. They drive another five miles without talking. According to a sign, Tataviam isn’t for another two, and the spot Geoff wants Trevor dumped is deep in the pass,

“Do you have any scars, Ray?”

After tonight, the question doesn’t even startle him. “Who doesn’t?”

“Good point,” Ryan says.

“My dad didn’t give them to me, though. I—” But he chokes it back.

Ryan doesn’t push it. “It’s okay. We’re still new to each other. But I’d love to know, one day.”

Ray can’t help himself: “Why?”

Ryan casually sidesteps the question: “Besides my arms, I have one on my chest, from prison; my cellmate tried to stab me with a toothbrush shiv after we had a fight. He tried doing it in my sleep but it was so dull and poorly made, I woke up before he could do real damage.”

“What’d you do to him?” Ray asks, already knowing the answer.

“Took the shiv and jammed it in his throat. He was dead before he could scream.”

The cool camaraderie in Ryan’s voice unnerves Ray all over again—that he can talk so calmly about brutally murdering a man...that he can make it sound like a conversation between _friends_ , even.

“What about the one on your...leg?”

Ryan’s brows raise. “You saw that?” Ray hesitates, which makes Ryan chuckle. “Couldn’t pull my pants on fast enough, huh?”

“Look—I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine, man. And that one’s from the wife.”

Ray can’t mask his surprise. “You’re _married_?”

Ryan snorts. “Hardly. But I was. A long time ago.” The exit approaches, so he signals and gets into the far right lane.

“What happened?”

He means about the scar, but Ryan is clearly enjoying telling him about it. “After I got out of prison, I met a girl: her name was Anna, she was twenty-one, and she was probably the prettiest girl I’d seen in a long time. She was married to one of my coworkers at the time, this real fucking douchebag, so I started sleeping with her after she made it obvious to me she hated her marriage, her husband, and her life in general.” There’s a gate arm guarding the mountain road, so Ryan plows through it. It rattles uselessly on the windshield. “After six months, she told me she was in love with me and wanted to leave her husband. First girl who’d ever said that to me—I was terrified.”

Ryan, terrified? Ray seriously doubts that, but Ryan’s tone is nothing but sincere.

“I mean, I’d never even had a _girlfriend_ and here was this woman telling me she wanted to get married and have my kids. I was twenty-four and had just gone to prison for armed robbery and attempted manslaughter. I’d killed people. I hadn’t even graduated high school and there was no chance of me getting like, a GED or something. How was I supposed to support a wife on my shitty salary and a boss who really wanted a reason to fire me? What was I gonna do with _kids_? Y’know?”

“But you said yes,” Ray points out.

Ryan chuckles. “Yes. I did. Eventually.” The road ahead is unlit with streetlights and hauntingly dark, the tires crunching over dirt and gravel. “I think I was excited about the whole thing. She was so...she was so _different_ than what I was used to. Rednecks and whores and no good pieces of shit who weren’t worth a damn. And yet, here was this beautiful woman who wanted me to marry her. So I did. That night. We got it signed by the state and kissed before God and everything. It was Heaven.”

“Until she knifed your thigh.”

“Until she knifed my thigh.” Ryan sighs. “I should have seen it coming, to be honest. It didn’t take long for us to start hating each other before we got hitched: I was always working just so I could afford rent and she was on disability and fought with me about everything—usually money. When we were just fucking, it was great, but once we got married there were all these responsibilities. I couldn’t fucking stand it, so one night, I didn’t come home and fucked a hooker.” Ryan pauses. “A man.”

Oh.

“She fucking lost it, but surprisingly, that’s not when she cut me.” Ryan chuckles. “I should have been, but it wasn’t. That came after, when I found out she was fucking her ex in retaliation. I still worked with him and he straight up told me, like he should have been rewarded for it. Prick. He said Anna wanted to divorce me so they could remarry and I fucking lost it, because I realized that she’d never loved me. She just used people when she needed them and moved on. I told him I’d kill him, and he told my boss. And I got fired that afternoon.”

Ryan doesn’t even look upset by the fact—just disappointed. 

“So I did,” he says. “I killed him. The next day, I snuck back the complex where they housed the trucks—it was a pest control company—and sealed off the doors and vents and gassed him and the rest of his crew.” Ryan sniffs. “They died pretty fast.”

Ray remembers, from the file: it didn’t mention that the guy Ryan was targeting was his wife’s ex, though. 

“I went home and woke Anna up and told her what I did, and she freaked, of course, like I was expecting, but I was so proud of it that I didn’t even care. I said, ‘we’re gonna be together forever now,’ and I don’t even know why: I didn’t wanna fucking be with her anymore. I couldn’t stand her. But it just came out and she went crazy all over again. Like, screaming ‘what the fuck is wrong with you’ and calling me ‘asshole’ and ‘murderer’ and whatever. Then, the next part really surprised me: she went to the kitchen and I thought she was gonna call the police. But she came back with a knife. And she stabbed me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ray mutters.

“On my inner thigh, because she said she was going for my crotch. Said she wanted me to ‘die how I lived’: dickless, apparently.”

Ray can’t even muster up a response.

“The thing is,” Ryan says with an ironic smile, “we never divorced. Technically, I’m still married to her. I have no idea where she is or what she’s doing now, but she’s still my wife. Kind of depressing, to be honest.”

“Not really. I mean, I definitely don’t have any scars that interesting,” Ray quips, just as they cross the dam. An abandoned ATV vehicle sits by a small shed on the other side.

After a while, Ryan stops the car. The reservoir is still and reflects the night sky like an enormous mirror; the air that greets Ray when he opens his door is crisp and cold. 

Popping the trunk, Ryan circles the back. He and Ray hoists out Trevor’s body and descend the slope into the water, which is cool as it rushes around their calves.

Ryan angles the sheets so they fill and soak in the water, which cancels out the natural buoyancy of the dead body; the red-stained bundle peacefully sinks to the bottom of the reservoir, where Ryan kicks up plumes of dirt and gravel until it’s concealed.

“Perfect.”

They wade out and climb back up the slope; going back into the trunk, Ryan tosses Ray a towel, which he uses to soak up his wet jean legs. 

“Smoke?” Ryan’s voice startles him. Ray looks up.

“Oh, I’m good,” he says to the offered cigarette pack. Ryan shrugs and pockets it. “Aren’t you gonna have one?”

“Nah. I don’t smoke anymore.”

Ray frowns, passing Ryan the towel. “But you carry a pack of smokes with you?’

Ryan uses it to towel his hair—still wet from the shower—dry. “A lot of the people I associate with do. It helps me make friends.”

Ray snorts. “You’re fucking weird, dude.”

Ryan smiles gently. “Likewise. Do you like me yet?”

“Huh?”

“This is why we came out here, isn’t it? So I could kill Geoff’s pest and you could learn that I’m not such a bad guy after all?”

“Oh, I still think you’re a bad guy,” Ray says wryly, “but I guess I trust you a little more.”

“That’s not an answer.” Ray opens his mouth again, but Ryan stops him with a hand. “It’s fine. I guess I’ll have plenty of time to try and persuade you now.”

“Why does it matter that I like you, anyways? When I joined, I didn’t give a fuck if they loved me or wanted to kill me.”

“It just does,” Ryan says. He tosses the towel back in the trunk and slams it shut. “Ready to go?”

“Are you gay?”

Ryan laughs. “Pardon me?”

Ray reddens. “Just wondering. Y’know, I don’t know if what you did in the club tonight was acting or improvising or what, but you said you slept with the guy hooker—I dunno. I’m just wondering, is all.”

“What happened at the club tonight was both improvising _and_ genuine...especially after I got him to the hotel.” Ryan grins, clearly enjoying Ray’s discomfort. “And to answer your original question, no. I’m not.”

“Ah.” Ray meets his eye. “So both?”

Ryan’s grin deepens. “Something like that.”

“Again, sorry. I was just curious.”

But to his surprise, Ryan doesn’t look bothered at all. He’s looking Ray over, and says, nearly to himself, “Man...I knew we were gonna work well together. We’re so alike.”

Ray bristles at that. “No, we’re not.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Ryan says. “I saw you standing there looking at Trevor. I saw the knife. I could just _tell_ : you enjoyed killing him. Who wouldn’t? He needed to be put in his place; he thought he was bigger than _all_ of you and yet there he was letting some stranger pick him when half the shit I made up didn’t even make sense. Maybe you’re not willing to admit it to yourself, maybe you think what you did was mercy, but I know. When I saw your face, you were so calm. It gave _me_ chills.”

Ray can’t think of anything to say.

“It’s fine, Ray. I get it. I think killing’s fun, too. Always have.” A positively predatory smile spills, slowly and widely across his face. “And it _is_ annoying when they beg.”

“Shut up,” Ray says suddenly, which makes Ryan laugh. “I fucking _mean_ it. I may have put Trevor out of his misery, but I wasn’t— _annoyed_. Yeah, I killed him, and yeah, maybe I didn’t feel guilty after, but you don’t get to compare me to you because I did something you’ve obviously _never_ done: I felt _bad_ for him. I don’t know where you get off comparing us, anyways. I never fucking _gassed_ my wife’s ex-husband for no reason other than I fucking _could_.”

Ryan looks at him for a minute. Then he starts to laugh again, a slow, steadily rising laugh that builds in his chest and ends with him bent over a little. Ray stares, uncertain and unsettled.

“Oh man,” Ryan says, looking back up. He smiles. “I like you, Ray. I knew I would. Your shell’s tougher than most of the ones I have to crack, but when I do, man...it’s worth it.”

Ray doesn’t even know what to say to that. So he says the only thing he knows: “We’re still nothing alike.”

The smile stays. Ryan’s eyes are so bright, they catch the stars.

“Yet.”

**end of Edge of Innocence**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that's a wrap on Part One! Part Two will likely be posted in its entirety over the next couple of days. 
> 
> This story is looking to be longer than I thought--maybe five or six parts. I'm still debating. Regardless of its length, I'll have all of it up here ASAP.


End file.
